


We Don't Need Another Hero

by saiyanshewolf (gossamerstarsxx)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Relationships, Claustrophobia, Claustrophobic Mei-Ling Zhou, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Traumatized Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, hana lucio lena and jamie being pals, mako acting like a grumpy big brother, survivor's guilt, why do i make my faves suffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerstarsxx/pseuds/saiyanshewolf
Summary: Junkrat knows he's not exactly hero material. Mei wonders what a hero even is, anyway.





	1. One [Preface]

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [We Don't Need Another Hero/我们不需要另一个英雄](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015289) by [PandaEmland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaEmland/pseuds/PandaEmland)



> **Warnings** : Graphic descriptions of panic attacks, flashbacks, etc.; (eventual) graphic descriptions of injuries, bloog & gore, etc.; (eventual) graphic smut; blood & minor self harm; timeskips; background pairings (see below); shit I make up to fill in lore gaps
> 
>  **Implied/Background Pairings** : McHanzo; implied past Reaper76; implied past/unrequited Widowtracer; Sympharah; implied Zarya x Tracer, drafted prior to Emily's reveal; Bunnyribbit friendship; this section may be updated as necessary
> 
>  **Notes** : Please let me know of any issues with Australian slang, or if I make any grave errors regarding a character's culture. I do my damnedest to research everything as thoroughly as possible, but mistakes happen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ Suffering from something we're not sure of, in a world there is no cure for. _   
>  Life Less Frightening - Rise Against   
> 

The first time Mei sees him, she isn't even a year out of cryostasis. She no longer knows how old she is, her body chemistry has become bizarre, and despite all her efforts the broken world into which she has emerged still seems more like a nightmare than reality.

She doesn't understand the nightmare he came from, only those he's caused, he and his silent hulking shadow of a bodyguard - international criminals, the both of them, and she watches on surveillance camera with the rest of her teammates as Winston contracts them into Overwatch.

“Jamison Fawkes, alias Junkrat, and Mako Rutledge, alias Roadhog,” Winston says, narrowing his dark eyes at the two filthy men in front of him. “You two are on the most wanted list of just about every major government in the world. I can make that go away.”

Junkrat grins. A gold tooth glints beneath the fluorescent lights.

They accept the terms of the contract and introductions follow. Almost half the team is missing, off on missions, but Winston insists on introducing them all the same.

Hana, Lúcio, and Lena are the most polite, the most willing to give the two criminals a chance. Morrison and McCree are gruff; Hanzo and Dr. Ziegler are distant. Roadhog says nothing to any of them, but Junkrat returns each greeting with at least an approximation of the enthusiasm with which it was given - or perhaps in a mockery of it. Mei can't be sure.

He tips an imaginary hat to McCree, sketches off a silent, smirking salute in response Morrison’s grunted greeting, returns Hanzo’s stiff bow with a grandiose wave of his metal arm, and then suddenly it is Mei’s turn.

Despite his terrible posture, Junkrat is tall. She has to tilt her head back to look up at his face - not that she can tell what he truly looks like beneath the layer of dust and soot and dried blood that clings to his skin. Swaths of his hair seem to have been burned off close to the scalp, giving him the receding-hairline look of someone twice his age; the hair he has left is wild and white-blond and burnt black at the ends. He’s shirtless, with tan lines from some sort of harness barely visible beneath the dirt. His right arm is missing and has been replaced just below his elbow with an old bionic model. His patched shorts are ragged gray-green, and a metal peg leg, knee joint and all, extends from the right side. His left leg is whole, albeit bound up in bandages. He wears a single ragged combat boot.

Overall he is filthy, reeking of blood and burned flesh and charred hair, smoke and gasoline and _pollution,_ and in him Mei sees everything that has gone wrong with the world she wants so badly to save. She wants to get away from him, he and his silent friend both. She can scarcely bring herself to nod in greeting.

That toothy grin spreads across Junkrat’s grimy face again, and up close Mei sees that it doesn't quite reach his hectic amber eyes.

“Why so serious?” he asks, smiling down at her. It is the first she has heard him speak and his Aussie accent is thick, twisting the English vowels, barely hinting at the R’s, and when Mei does not respond he laughs, affecting a shiver.

“Brrr. I get cold just lookin’ at ya.”

“Then you should look somewhere else,” she snaps.

She turns on her heel and walks away. She ignores Lúcio’s quiet _Damn, Mei!_ , ignores the way Lena calls after her and ignores McCree's low whistle.

She locks herself in her room and stays there.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ When the firing finally stops _   
>  _ And our weapons start to drop _   
>  _ Will I like what I see? _   
>  **Who Are You Anyway? - Taking Back Sunday**   
> 

_Six Months Later_

It should have been simple to reclaim the abandoned Watchpoint from Talon. Reaper and Widowmaker are easily Talon’s biggest threats, and all intelligence had pointed to the two of them being on the other side of the globe. As soon as their six-member strike team sets foot inside the compound, however, black smoke and bullets begin to fly.

Reinhardt loses his shield capabilities within the first ten minutes. Widowmaker shoots out the eye of his projector from who knows how many yards.

Hanzo is hit almost immediately afterward. He doesn’t go down, not quite, but the pain in his voice as he mutters _I have been hit_ into his comm is enough to drain most of the blood from McCree's face.

On the heels of _that_ Reaper appears, manifesting like a nightmare from whorls of black smoke that reek of sulfur and gunpowder. He makes the mistake of threatening Hanzo’s life.

McCree is after him within moments, snarling in Spanish, heedless of the other Talon agents heading toward their position in the central plaza.

All hell breaks loose soon after.

Dr. Ziegler pulls her sidearm and flies to assist Hanzo while Reinhardt takes position in front of Junkrat and Mei, blocking them from Widowmaker’s lines of sight. What McCree is doing, Mei doesn't know. She focuses on walling off avenues of attack from incoming groups of Talon agents and freezing lone ones solid, her mind falling blank as she allows the concentration to consume her. It’s the only way she won’t think too much, won’t hurt herself by remembering the humanity of her enemies - that is for later, when she’s back in her room at the main compound, safe and alone. For now she responds to her environment on instinct, shouting directions and encouragement as she feels they are needed.

She is only distantly aware of Junkrat’s presence, despite the fact that he is working right alongside her...and despite the fact that their particular methods seem to work unnervingly well together.

Mei walls off a squad of Talon mercenaries and Junkrat launches grenades over the top of it immediately afterward, taking out the squad without risking friendly fire damage from the blast. She freezes a lone stealth agent, and Junkrat’s concussion mine shatters him to pieces.

She doesn’t think about it. She can't think about it.

A Talon soldier darts into a large building at the far edge of the central plaza and Mei moves to neutralize him, announcing her change of position into the comm and making sure to keep Reinhardt almost directly at her back.

The moment she steps in front of the open doorway, half the building explodes.

Her last thought before she initiates her hated cryo-freeze is that this isn’t one of Junkrat’s - _can’t_ be his, because she doesn’t hear him laughing.

No, this is one of Talon’s, and it detonates too close to Mei. Shrapnel lodges itself into the endothermic diffuser and the mechanism is half torn apart before the freeze is complete, severing Snowball’s line of communication with the main device.  As a result, the ice is nowhere near thick enough - Mei is still conscious beneath it, and when it shatters open at the first significant debris impact she is almost grateful.

The feeling does not last long. She is thrown with concussive force, the endothermic diffuser falling from her back. Snowball disappears beneath the rubble. Mei’s body slams into the side of the compound wall and her head meets the stone with wet _thwack._ Her vision doubles, then trebles. Her ears are ringing, and yet she can still hear the the whistle of the bullet; she tries to move but her body is slow to respond to her commands. She can only cringe, bracing herself for pain, for death -

For anything but Junkrat and the _ting!_ of Widowmaker’s bullet ricocheting off his bionic arm.

Slowly, her vision begins to clear. Junkrat merges into one person. He stands with his living limbs angled behind his narrow body, his burned and bleeding hand open just above her stomach, as if he had been about to touch her and thought better of it. His skin is covered in dust and nicks and scratches. The lower part of his metal peg leg is dented in, forcing him to put most of his weight on the living one, and he holds his metal arm up in front of his face with the fingers curled into a fist around a familiar looking switch.

He is not laughing, and Mei is too unnerved by the absence of it to speak.

“Three…” Junkrat mumbles.

A bullet bites into his tattooed shoulder, but Junkrat barely moves - he rocks back slightly with the force of impact, but the spray of blood seems to phase him not at all.

“Two…”

Mei hears the RIP-Tire whirring in the distance.

“One…”

Junkrat clicks the switch and bellows, “ _Fire in the hole, ya snipin’ fuck!”_ as he turns on his existing heel and sweeps Mei down to the ground.

He is over a foot taller than she is and covers her completely, cradling her head against his living arm and blocking her ears, but Mei’s mind won't let her recognize the movement for what it is. She struggles against him, jackknifing in his arms; her throat is tight, her chest is heavy, and she pounds her gloved fists against Junkrat’s bony, bloody chest as her pulse begins to hammer in her ears like a drum of war.

Junkrat only holds her tighter, mumbling something under his breath that Mei can't hear...and then the RIP-Tire detonates.

It utterly destroys the other half of the building Mei had tried to investigate. Stone and steel and flaming shrapnel begin to rain down around them. Mei finally understands why Junkrat won't let her go, but it comes too late - she is already panicking, and she doesn't stop struggling against the wiry steel of his arms until he hoists himself off her what seems like an eternity later.

She scrambles away from him as soon as his weight is off her, gasping for air like a drowning person as he uses his good arm and leg to shift himself away from her.

“Oi, Miss Mei,” he says sharply, “Ya all right? What year is it?”

Mei stares at him, still trying to catch her breath.

“Miss Mei? _What year is it?”_

She blinks owlishly; she barely comprehends his words.

_He’s bleeding_ , she thinks. _Doesn't he know?_

Junkrat’s amber eyes widen. There is no maniacal light in them, only panic.

“Miss Mei!” he barks, “C’mon, gimme the year!”

His voice is so sharp that she flinches from it. She rattles off the full date - month, day, year - and Junkrat leans back, kicking his dented peg leg out in front of himself as he breathes a sigh of unmistakable relief.

“Good on ya,” he says, “Took a hell of a knock on tha head, Miss.”

She sits up slowly, trying to minimize the pain that is already pulsing from the back of her skull like the epicenter of an earthquake. She closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath - _I can breathe,_ she thinks, _I’m okay, I can breathe._

After a minute or two, she opens her eyes a looks up at Junkrat. His right arm is slick with blood; Mei watches a rivulet of it trickle down one of the grooves on his prosthetic.

“You're bleeding,” she says. The scientific part of her mind notes the high arch in her voice, her rapid, shallow breaths - she is no medic like Dr. Ziegler, but she knows the symptoms of shock even in herself.

“You're _bleeding,”_ she repeats, “You've been shot.”

“Had worse,” he says, and tries to shrug. The minute he moves his shoulders his face goes white beneath the dust.

“Don't mean it don't hurt like blue _fuck_ ,” he gasps, clapping his hand over the ragged wound. “Bloody _hell._ Ain't _never_ liked bein’ shot.”

“You've...been shot _before_?” Mei asks.

Junkrat shoots her a sideways glance, one singed blond eyebrow raised high.

“Ya _do_ know where I’m from, right?” he asks.

“Of course I do,” Mei replies, somewhat defensively. “You're Australian -”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an Aussie,” he waves his hand dismissively, fingers and glove slicked in blood. “But any other Aussie lookin’ at me would call me a junker first.”

His lip curls a little as he speaks - he sounds grim, pained, wholly unlike himself, and Mei makes no response.

Junkrat shifts his weight, propping his back against the wall of the compound and holding his metal hand in front of his face. He flexes the the wrist joint. Even Mei can hear the grinding sound coming from inside.

“Besides, you're the greenie,” he adds at length. “I know ya know what happened there.”

“I do,” Mei says hesitantly. “But…”

“But what?” He asks, still testing his bionic joints and frowning at the sound.

“But I’ve only ever read about it,” Mei says. “You...you’re…”

She falters, unable to find the words she’s looking for. There is a deep, sick ache radiating from the back of her head, and her abused muscles are beginning to feel stiff and sore. It is difficult for her to think properly, let alone speak with tact, but her hesitation is not lost on Junkrat.

He gives her another one of those sidelong glances, his broad mouth finally twisting into a familiar smirk. When he laughs, he sounds a little more like his usual self.

“I’m _what_?” he asks. The smirk widens into a grin, showing off feral-looking teeth. “Little too up close an’ personal for ya, Miss? I ain't pretty an’ neither is the Outback, we’ll leave it at that, yeah? We need ta be lookin’ for the big bloke anyway - Reinhardt. Comms’re offline an’ it's too goddamn quiet, ya noticed?”

It takes Mei a full five seconds to untangle Reinhardt’s name from Junkrat’s accent - in his mouth it becomes _Roynhaht -_ but almost as soon as it clicks, they hear Reinhardt’s booming voice.

“Hammer _down!”_

Junkrat and Mei both brace themselves instinctively - the ground quakes and an opening appears in the rubble scattered around them. Reinhardt steps through, flanked by Hanzo and McCree, with Dr. Ziegler hovering above them like an angel in her Valkyrie suit.

“Are you two all right?” She asks, gliding down to her feet in front of them. “The comms went out after that first explosion - what _happened,_ Junkrat? You should have warned us!”

“It wasn't his fault,” Mei says, and her cheeks grow warm as everyone - including Junkrat - turns to look at her in shock. She has never defended him, not once in the six months since he and Roadhog signed on, and everyone knows she had been less than enthusiastic about being assigned to her first mission with him.

“That first explosion was Talon’s,” she says, looking down at her knees to avoid their eyes. “They lured me close, then set off the explosion. It damaged my weapon and Snowball too, so my cryo-freeze didn't hold -”

“She flew ‘bout ten yards an’ took a hell of wallop to the back a’the head,” Junkrat adds. “I was comin ta see if she needed backup when the bitch blew. Doubt it's a concussion - she knew the date, any rate - but ya should probably give ‘er a once over -”

Mei turns to look at him, incredulous.

“Junkrat _,_ she needs to be looking at _you -”_

“I can wait, a cracked skull can't,” he retorts.

“You've been _shot -”_

“I told ya, I been shot before, I’m _fine,_ now let her -”

“You are _literally covered in blood_ and your leg is _dented -”_

“An’ _you_ could be fuckin’ _concussed -”_

“ _Quiet,_ you two!” Dr. Ziegler says, waving her hands. “Junkrat - how did you get shot?”

“Widowmaker missed,” he says. “Tried ta blow her up for it, an’ I mighta got part of her, but I got a sneaky suspicion tha snipin’ bitch escaped.”

“We are lucky she was having an off day,” Hanzo mumbles - his shoulder shows shiny, raw red skin, a sure sign that Dr. Ziegler had speed-healed a bullet wound.

“She wouldn't have missed me,” Mei says. “She was trying to kill me - to take me out while I was still disoriented from the explosion. Junkrat deflected the shot.”

By the time she processes her own words, Reinhardt has already placed a scowling Junkrat on his shoulder, and Dr. Ziegler is kneeling to look at the wound on the back of Mei’s head.

Junkrat had saved her life.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ He's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone... _   
>  Devil's Backbone - The Civil Wars   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : My lack of an Aussie-picker; vague descriptions of shady medical procedures.

_One Week Later_

Junkrat saved her life, and she doesn't know why. In the six months leading up to the messy reclamation mission, Mei had given him no incentive to even _speak_ to her, let alone put himself between her and a bullet from Widowmaker.

He had to have followed her after she went to investigate the building - even as shaken as she had been at the time, it was easy to tell that Junkrat had caught at least some of the blast. He had been covered in dust, his chest and arms peppered with nicks and cuts from debris; she had learned later that the dent in his metal peg leg had come from a chunk of flying stone.

Mei puts her hands over her face and groans. It is two AM, and she has yet to sleep. Her head aches a little, though most of the symptoms of her concussion are gone now. She misses the LED glow of Snowball’s little face, too. She hasn’t had the heart to build a new one yet.

Missing Snowball isn’t why she’s still awake, though, and neither is the headache.

She’s been lying here wide awake since 11, thinking of _Junkrat._

It would almost be funny, if she wasn't also thinking about every unkind thing she had ever said about him.

She had called him a bully more times that she could count. A no-good bully, a rotten criminal, a disaster waiting to happen - she had said all these things, some of them to his face, and had thought even worse...and yet none of those things had caused the sneer with which he had said _junker._

_Any other Aussie lookin’ at me would call me a junker first._

Mei sits up abruptly, reaching across her nightstand to grab her glasses and her tablet. She taps the screen a few times, searching online for information about the Outback disaster - information that isn't all scientific calculations and estimations of pollution and radiation levels.

She soon discovers that there is very little of that available. Only the most basic descriptions of the disaster and the ensuing formation of Junkertown seem to exist, as if the entire world has collectively chosen to ignore the fact that a society straight out of old dystopian films had sprung up in Central Australia over two decades prior.

Finally, after scouring blogging websites for the better part of an hour, Mei finds _something,_ at least. It’s an old blog - nearly a decade old, in fact - but it is an account of an amateur journalist’s excursion into the Australian Outback. The first paragraph is a direct copy-paste from the Wiki article on the subject; the rest is badly written - she can recognize that right away - but since it is the best option she has at the moment, she begins to read.

_Australia was nearly destroyed during the Omnic Crisis. Following the war, government officials gifted the country's omnium and the surrounding area to the omnics, hoping to establish a long-term peace accord. This arrangement displaced a large number of the Outback's residents—a scattered collection of survivalists, solar farmers, and people who just wanted to be left alone. Furious over the loss of their homes, some of the displaced turned to violent rebellion. They formed the Australian Liberation Front and struck against the omnium and its robot population to take back their lands. Events continued to escalate until the rebels sabotaged the omnium's fusion core, resulting in an explosion that destroyed the facility, irradiated the region, and littered the Outback with twisted metal and wreckage for kilometers around._

_The Outback became unlivable to most, but there were some who survived. Calling themselves the Junkers, they scavenged the husk of the omnium and formed a lawless, cutthroat society in its shadow._

_I recently undertook the arduous journey into Australia’s dystopian Outback, hoping for a more in-depth look at how the Junker society has developed after twenty-odd years. I spent a week in Junkertown and the surrounding wasteland - and a week in the hospital upon my return to civilization._

Mei scrolls past the initial purple prose - painful descriptions of the landscape and the smell of the air, an entire paragraph bemoaning the heat - until she finds a section with some substance.

_Junkertown is an unsightly city built barely a mile from the omnium - its husk is actually visible on the horizon, and the Geiger counter on my tablet hovers just a tick above the danger zone the entire time I'm there._

_Built from scraps of the omnium, bits of old cars and airplanes, sheets of tin, omnic parts, wood, plastic, and homemade brick, Junkertown is a sprawling confusion of a city. There is no rhyme or reason to the baked dirt streets, and I am far too afraid to ask the inhabitants for directions…_

Mei scrolls, rolling her eyes as the author’s writing devolves into flowery language and extended metaphors once more, all in order to describe Junkertown’s second-in-command, Max. She eventually pauses on a likely-looking section about Junker “law.”

_Junkertown is the central base of those who call themselves the Junkers, and though smaller satellite cities do exist, each is considered to be under the jurisdiction of Junkertown. While most of the world believes the Junkers to be lawless and savage, they are only half right - savagery is rampant, but the Junkers simply have_ fewer _laws._

Far _fewer._

_“Don't rape, don't steal from anyone who can't spare it, look out for your allies, don't kill kids, don't kill another Junker unless ya got a good reason,” Max says. “Killin’ is  really the only thing we bother with a trial for. Sometimes. Depends on the context.”_

Mei scrolls past five paragraphs of the author’s introspection on the ethics of Junker society. _This is why I prefer scientific texts - no badly written philosophical interruptions,_ she thinks.

She stops at a section about medical procedures in Junker society, specifically amputations and bionics. These paragraphs Mei reads almost in their entirety.

_Lost limbs are not uncommon amongst the inhabitants of the Outback. Whether one loses an arm to an errant piece of heavy scrap or a leg to an infected gunshot wound, amputations are one of the most commonly conducted medical procedures in Junkertown...and they are often conducted in conditions that border on medieval. I witness such a situation firsthand._

_I watch as a young teenage boy is brought in. He sits on a metal table. He is given several shots of liquor - too many for a boy his age - and then they begin to secure him to the table._

_His legs are bound together and his good arm is bound to his side; his forehead is strapped down. More straps run across his chest, his stomach, his knees and ankles. His other arm is severely infected, the flesh a mottled green and black, the wound in the center oozing pus and blood. The stench is incredible._

_The doctor - if he can truly be called such - pulls the boy’s arm through a leather loop at the edge of the table. He cinches the leather tight, just below the boy’s elbow, until the boy cries out in pain._

_And then the doctor dons a protective mask and fires up a sort of laser blade. The technology was once cutting edge_ (Mei cringes) _but is far outdated now. The machine still works. The boy’s arm is severed and the resulting wound cauterized in one clean swipe._

_Despite the liquor, he screams until he passes out._

Mei scrolls - not very far. She feels a little sick.

_Nerve caps are attached to the stumps of severed limbs without the benefit of even a local anesthetic. Older patients are entirely liable to die from heart attacks - the procedure takes a very long time, and the pain is agonizing, often inducing intense panic and hysteria before the unfortunate patient blacks out._

_Though functional bionic prosthetics are available -  for a price - no model is exactly brand new. Most of them are refurbished versions of older models, and may be recycled multiple times before finally being cannibalized for scrap._

Mei finds herself wondering how Junkrat lost his arm and his leg. The defunct blog is at least ten years old. For all she knows, the author could have been describing Junkrat’s amputation. She scrolls again, trying not to imagine a 15 year old Junkrat, strapped to a metal table and screaming in pain -

_Junker society prides itself on cunning, resourcefulness, and perseverance. These people are no strangers to pain and suffering, be it physical or emotional, and those who show weakness do not survive long. Even the children seem to know this. Few have both parents, and a majority have neither; as a result the children of Junkertown tend to band together on their own, and have formed a hierarchy of gangs based on age..._

She tries to read more, but all she can think about is Junkrat. What had his childhood been like? What had his _life_ been like? It sounds like hell to her, but at the same time she feels no pity for him...only a strange and newfound sort of awe, that he had not only survived such conditions but managed to thrive as well.

He has done terrible things - she knows that - but now she can't help but wonder what the _context_ of those things had been.

_I owe him an apology,_ she thinks, putting her glasses away and burying her face in the tops of her knees. _I didn't know anything about where he came from. Not really._


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I can't save the world_   
>  _So I'm never gonna get the girl_   
>  **Superhero - Falling In Reverse**

“Bloody _fuckin’_ hell!”

Junkrat’s unmistakable voice is followed by a loud crashing sound. Mei - startled out of a light sleep and terrified that something potentially explosive has gone wrong - grabs her glasses and sprints down the corridor from her quarters into the lab area at the center of the floor.

Junkrat is sitting on one of the stools at the bionic repair station. His back is to her and he seems to have his head on the table, pillowed on his living arm. The floor around him is littered in tools and parts, screws and nuts and bolts. An overturned toolbox covered in stickers and soot sits near him, the top hanging drunkenly open over the table’s edge.

Mei hesitates. She and Junkrat are the only two quartered belowground at the moment - Mei because the colder temperatures down there don't bother her and she enjoys having an entire lab to herself, Junkrat because Winston had moved him there after the third time he managed to blow up part of the aboveground weapons development bunker.

While she must admit that it _is_ safer for Junkrat to have his own subterranean bunker to work in, Mei had initially been less than thrilled about her new neighbor...and avoided him at all costs. It wasn't difficult - her quarters and her personal lab are both on one end of the floor. She has no need to ever visit the bionic repair station that separates her wing from the one to which Junkrat had been assigned. In fact, this the first time Mei has actually _seen_ him on their floor, although she has _heard_ him often...but she has never heard the crash of tools being scattered, has never heard him sound so frustrated.

She moves toward him with tentative steps. She doesn't mean to sneak, not really, but she _is_ barefoot, and as she gets closer she realizes that Junkrat is mumbling to himself and snatching at his hair.

“Ya fuckin’ drongo,” he mumbles, “Stupid, ya knew it wasn't workin’ right, ya _knew_ it, shoulda come down here soon’s it happened, fuckin’ _stupid…”_

He sits up abruptly, and as he moves his left hand away from his head Mei sees hanks of white-blond hair scatter from his fingers to the floor.

_It isn't getting burned off,_ she realizes. _He's snatching it out._

“C’mon, ya worthless fuck…”

There's a slight pause, and then Mei cringes at the sound of metal scraping across metal. Junkrat snarls in frustration, a sound so full of anger and disgust that Mei can't believe that it’s honestly coming from Junkrat.

“Fuck me,” Junkrat grumbles, “Fuck me an’ this piece a’ shit -”

A screwdriver flies over Junkrat’s narrow shoulder and straight for Mei’s face. She ducks just in time, cursing in Chinese, and Junkrat whirls around to face her so quickly that he nearly falls off the stool.

“Miss Mei!” he says, “Shit, I didn't know you was behind me - didn't hit ya, did I?”

“No,” Mei says quickly, “No, I'm fine - just - I heard a crash, and I…”

Junkrat rubs the back of his neck, something she's seen him do a thousand times...but this time the movement looks peculiar, and Mei can't place why.

“Sorry ta wake ya, Miss Mei,” he says, flashing a grin that is just a little too bright. “I’ll clean up me mess, I promise.”

Mei nods, but something is off about Junkrat’s entire posture - more than usual, anyway. She can't figure out _what;_ it's distracting. He, however, mistakes her scrutiny for irritation.

“I'll be quiet about it, too,” he assures her. “Just, ah...got a little excited working on a new, uh...new grenade, yeah -”

He laughs; it’s a hollow approximation of his usual cackling.

“Something is wrong,” Mei says, mostly to herself. She steps closer, pushing socket wrenches and ratchets out of her way with the side of her foot.

“Miss, it's _nothin’ -”_

Mei takes his right hand in hers, and Junkrat’s forced laughter tapers off.

The metal is cold to the touch, which is incredibly unusual for human bionics, and the fingers don't respond to the pressure of her thumb on the palm. As Mei looks up at him, Junkrat turns away, propping his opposite elbow on the table and covering his face with his hand.

“I _said_ it's nothin’,” he mumbles, and he somehow manages to sound both childishly petulant and deeply embarrassed at the same time.

“Junk -”

Mei stops short. Everything she had read hours earlier comes back to her in a flood, along with all the rude things she has said about him. She remembers the _ting!_ of a bullet ricocheting off the arm she holds in her hands.

“Jamie,” she says softly, “Do you want me to help you?”

She is becoming familiar with the Jamison Fawkes side-eye. She can't blame him for looking at her that way, not exactly, but it still sends a strange sensation up her spine.

“Didn't catch that, Miss Mei. Come again?”

Mei sighs. “I asked if you wanted me to help you, Jamie. If you don't, just say so. I'll go back to bed.”

Jamie drops his eyes to the floor. “No, I don't want help.”

Mei moves to release his hand, but then Jamie turns to look at her with a rueful little smirk on his face and adds, “But I damn sure _need_ it, so I guess I ought not act like a tit about it, huh?”

Mei looks down at the tools scattered across the tile, then back at Jamie, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Does shoving all your tools on the ground and almost hitting me in the face with a screwdriver during a temper tantrum count as acting like a tit?”

Jamie laughs, and this one sounds a bit more genuine.

“Yeah,” he says sheepishly, “Reckon.”

“I thought it might,” Mei says. “Now...what were you trying to do, exactly? I'm not great with bionics, but maybe you can walk me through it.”

“Ta be honest, not sure the bodgy thing can be fixed,” Jamie says, his expression darkening again. “Usually these things are waterproof, y’know, but mine ain't been airtight in years. I slipped carryin’ a water bucket ta somethin’ that caught fire in the bunker, and got it all over meself. Damn thing started actin’ up pretty quick after, an’ then I felt a kinda shock come up through the nerve cap...a minute later it was like this.”

“So why couldn't you get it open?” Mei asks, checking the panel along his forearm before selecting a tiny screwdriver from the floor. She holds it up, raising an eyebrow, and Junkrat nods.

"That'll do it. And I'm bloody right handed," he mumbles; a band of barely-visible pink appears along his grimy nose.

Mei tries - and fails - not to giggle as she sits down next to him, setting the screwdriver into one of the tiny screws.

“Oi, shut it,” Jamie says, smirking in spite of himself as Mei sets aside a couple of the screws. “Had a bionic since right after I lost th’ damn thing, an’ there was always somebody around who knew what they were doin’...I never had ta work on it myself ‘til now. Didn't wanna make Roadie come all the way down here ta deal - _oh sweet fuckin’ Christ!”_

His voice jumps an octave as the tiny screwdriver slips, pushing the plate off and sinking down into the wires inside the prosthetic. The muscles in his upper arm seize tight; Mei pulls the screwdriver out and drops it as quickly as she can, snatching her hands away and holding them up as if in surrender.

“Sorry!” She says. “Sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry...are you okay?!”

“Not quite. Fuck me,” Jamie hisses through his teeth, “Hell of a way to find the thing’s just shortin’ out. Shockin’ all up my arm oh my _fuck -”_

“Sorry!” Mei repeats anxiously. “Does it come off, can you get it off?!”

Jamie cringes. “Nah, yeah, I can get it off. Hurts like fuck ta do it, honestly, but it comes off.”

“Is it _supposed_ to hurt…?”

Jamie shakes his head, pulling his arm in close to his chest and cradling his elbow.

“Nerve cap on me stump is fucked,” he explains, his voice tight with pain as he unstraps the loop near the bottom of his tricep. “Didn't get put on right, so it don't disconnect like it's meant ta do. Takin’ the thing off kinda feels like amputatin’ all over again.”

_Nerve caps are attached to the stumps of severed limbs without the benefit of even a local anesthetic…_

“Jamie,” Mei says, her voice rising in alarm, “Jamie, Dr. Ziegler can fix this, and that too, I’m sure, just let me go get her - !”

“Don't wanna be a bother,” Jamie says, still speaking through his teeth. “I dealt with it most a’ me life, ain't so big a deal - hang on -”

He takes a deep breath, and before Mei can open her mouth to protest he reaches down into the prosthetic and twists something. His bionic arm clatters onto the table, exposing the black nerve cap embedded into his scarred flesh, and Jamie buries the heel of his other hand in his teeth to muffle a guttural cry of pain.

The sound is so brief that for a moment Mei thinks that perhaps the pain is manageable, but then she sees blood seeping into the ragged fabric of Junkrat’s glove and her heartbeat kicks into high gear.

“Jamie!” she cries, jumping off her stool and grabbing his wrist. “Jamie _stop that_ the human mouth is _disgusting_ oh my God _are you all right?!”_

“Ohbloodyfuck,” he hisses, struggling against Mei as she tries to pull his hand away from his mouth. “Bloodybluefuckin’Christ -”

Mei is horrified to see that his eyes are welling with tears - he is shaking beneath her touch, and she tries to tug him gently off the stool, intent on bringing him straight to Dr. Ziegler.

“Jamie _please_ let me take you to Dr. Ziegler, okay?” She begs. “She can give you something for the pain and probably get this fixed tomorrow!”

“I said _no,”_ Jamie growls. He jerks his bleeding hand away from his mouth and out of hers, wiping the blood on his shorts and turning away from her. “Go back ta bed!”

Mei recoils, taken aback by his sharp words; then he lets out a ragged gasp of pain and she grabs the edge of his stool, spinning him around to face her and glaring as she leans toward him.

“Jamison Fawkes, stop being so _bullheaded,”_ she says, putting her hands on her hips. “You're in _pain -”_

“An' I don't want anyone else knowin’ it!” he snarls. “Bad enough _you_ of all people havin’ ta -”

He stops short, the vicious curl of his mouth falling away as he catches himself, and Mei blinks up at him in surprise. His hard, narrowed amber eyes soften somewhat before he closes them and turns away from her.

“I’m fine,” he says, and his voice is dull as stone. He drags his prosthetic toward himself across the table with his left hand before picking up the tiny screwdriver. “Go on back ta bed, Miss Mei.”

_Those who show weakness do not survive long._

Mei drops her arms.

“Okay,” she sighs. “Okay, Jamie.”

But instead of going back to her bedroom, she climbs onto the stool next to him. She takes the screwdriver away, then takes his hand in hers, unsnapping his bloodied glove.

“How bad is the pain?” she asks, working the ragged fingerless glove off his hand as carefully as she can. “From taking the bionic off, I mean. On a scale of 1-10.”

Jamie opens his mouth to speak, that broad mouth of his curling again as if he means to snap at her, but Mei looks up and cuts him off, locking her dark eyes on his.

“Don't you lie to me, Jamie,” she says, and though she intends for the words to be cold and stern, they come out softly, barely above a whisper.

The sneer fades from Jamie’s face. After a moment or two he looks away toward the wall and mumbles, “Seven. Eight. It'll come an’ go between for awhile.”

Mei nods her head, setting the filthy fingerless glove on the table next to his arm.

“Come with me, okay?” she says, slipping off her stool again and tugging at his wrist. “I’m no medic, but I’ll have to do. I need to clean this.”

“I ain't -”

“Don't argue with me, Jamison,” Mei says, and this time she _does_ sound stern. “Not on this one. I won't call Dr. Ziegler, even though it's against my better judgement, but I’m at _least_ going to clean this up. _”_

Jamie closes his mouth. After a moment he gives a stiff nod and allows her to lead him toward the First Aid station. When he sits down at the table he presents his hand to her silently, turning his head to glare at the wall some more.

Mei says nothing. She wipes his hand clean; it takes about five antibacterial wipes, but when she's done, she can't help but marvel at actually seeing Jamie’s clean, bare skin for once.

The back of his hand is covered in burn scars. Most are small, but one near the base of his thumb is bigger, the tissue twisted and ropy as if it had healed badly.

“What did you do?” she asks, brushing her thumb across the scarred skin before she can stop herself.

Jamie turns his head to look down at their hands, then abruptly looks up at the ceiling instead.

“Stuck me thumb in an exhaust pipe when I was nine,” he mutters, and once again Mei is hard pressed not to laugh.

“I'm sorry,” she giggles, as she turns his palm upward. “I'm sorry, it's just...of course that's what you did. Of _course.”_

“Was tryin’ ta build an engine for somethin’. Don't remember what,” he says. “I wanted ta know what’d happen if th’exhaust didn't have nowhere ta go.”

“That's certainly one way to find out,” Mei says, pulling out a cotton ball and a bottle of disinfectant. “This is probably going to sting…”

Jamie only hisses a few times as she cleans him up. She covers the wound in antibacterial ointment, wraps a neat bandage around it, and tapes it in place.

“All done,” she says. “Now don't take that off, okay? I'll replace it for you tomorrow night, if your arm is still malfunctioning.”

Jamie is quiet for a moment, still looking anywhere but at Mei. She has almost made up her mind to leave him there when he speaks.

“Thanks, Miss Mei,” he says quietly. “For fixin’ me up.”

Mei isn't sure if his voice sounds like that because of the pain or if it's something else, but hearing him say her name like that...so _softly,_ without any of the teasing or snark that she's accustomed to…

“It's nothing!” She assures him, speaking just to escape her train of thought. “It's the least I could do. You…”

She stops short and looks down at the table, knowing that she's going to blush, knowing that it needs to be said.

“You _did_ save my life,” she continues. “And...and I owe you an apology.”

“What…? What for?” Jamie asks, and he sounds so genuinely baffled that Mei can't help but look up at him.

“I said a lot of unkind things about you,” she says, “I...I judged you without making an effort to understand you, and that was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Jamie shifts in his seat, holding the elbow of his abbreviated arm with his bandaged hand. He flashes a sudden grin, one of those that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“It's okay, Miss Mei,” he says, and his voice is far too cheery. “Me and Roadie...we ain't exactly hero material, after all.”

He laughs, but not for long. When he sees that Mei isn't so much as smiling, he trails off into a bewildered and uncomfortable silence.

“You saved my life,” Mei repeats. “That's heroic enough for a start.”

She pushes away from the table and starts to walk away. Her emotions are beginning to unravel and she desperately wants to be alone in her bedroom, where she can sort out her feelings away from Jamie’s warm sunset eyes.

She doesn't see him turn around in his seat, watching her go with his mouth hanging half open in disbelief.

_Heroic?_ He thinks.

As Mei passes the table where the currently useless prosthetic sits, Jamie clutches his elbow more tightly, digging his fingertips into the flesh until he cringes with pain.

_Not me._


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ And where will he go, and what will he do, when midnight comes around? _   
>  All Tomorrow's Parties - The Velvet Underground   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Dialogue heavy; Jamie's foul mouth; my lack of an Aussie-picker; a short timeskip (those will stop soon, I swear); allusions to unrequited WidowTracer; vague allusions to past Reaper76. Someone could probably claim that there's unrequited D.Va/Tracer, too, but that is not my intention.
> 
> **Notes** : I apologize if Lena, Lúcio, and Hana seem OOC. Particularly Hana. I personally think she's the kind of person who can 100% be a little shit sometimes, but I think she'd be a little more deadpan about it around personal friends than she would with an audience. I also wanted to avoid the Gremlin!D.Va route. Either way, this is my first time writing for Overwatch, and while I'm fairly confident handling my faves I'm still getting used to others. Hopefully it will only get better from here!

**_One Month Later_ **

“I _told_ ya, I ain't goin’!”

Hana rolls her eyes, smacking her gum as she stretches the measuring tape across Jamie’s narrow shoulders. “You _know_ you want to ask her! We’re just making sure you have something decent to wear.”

“Besides, Winston's gonna be pissed off if at least _one_ of you doesn't show up,” Lena adds. She’s sprawled on her back across Hana’s bed, watching the process with her head hanging over the edge. “Whole reason he’s organizin’ this is to pitch Overwatch as a legit agency again.”

“An’ what does that have ta do with me an’ Roadie?” he asks. “We just _work_ here, we ain’t a _part_ a’ shit.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, luv. Put it this way: _one_ of you needs to show, ‘cause the rest of the world’s only gonna stay off your arse so long’s they think _somebody_ has you under control, yeah?”

“I’m plenty under control long as I’m gettin’ _paid_. It ain’t like - _oi,_ what was _that_ for?!” Jamie cries, jerking away from Hana as if she had stabbed him.

“Because you won’t stop slouching,” Hana says, and gives him another hard poke in the lower back for good measure.

Jamie straightens up with a scowl, and Hana has to rise up to her tiptoes to re-measure his shoulders.

“You need to eat better, dude,” Lúcio says. He is sitting on the floor near Lena, propped against Hana’s bed and eyeing Jamie’s ribs with a frown. “You’re not in the Outback any more, you know? We’ve got better food here than, like...radioactive kangaroo, or whatever.”

Jamie makes a face. “‘Roo’s tough. Gamy.”

“Why would you eat a kangaroo?!” Lena gasps, rolling onto her stomach and looking up at Jamie in horror. “They’re so cute!”

“No fuck they ain’t!” Jamie says with a rough laugh. “It was Zarya vs. a ‘roo, I’d still put me money on Zarya...but I’d have ta think real hard ‘bout it first. Besides, ain’t a lot a’choice in the Outback.”

“Exactly my point, _mate,_ ” Lúcio says, in a terrible approximation of an Australian accent. “We have _actual food_ here. No reason I should be able to count your ribs.”

“Blowin’ shit up burns lotsa calories,” Jamie answers, flashing a toothy grin. “An’ _maybe_ if I blow up _the whole bloody compound_ , I won’t have ta go ta this shindig.”

“Pretty sure that would void your contract,” Hana says flatly, wrapping the tape measure around Jamie’s chest. “Then you’d be an internationally wanted criminal again, Mei would hate you, and one of us would have kill you. Luckily no one would have to measure you for a coffin, they could just ask me. Now _be still._ I’ve got a raid in ten minutes.”

“An’ just what makes ya think I care if she hates me?” Jamie mutters, as if he had not heard anything past that point.

Hana and Lúcio look at each other and roll their eyes; Jamie scowls, turning faintly scarlet beneath the soot.

“Well you can still care about someone who hates you,” Lena says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “And besides, Mei doesn’t hate you _now._ ”

Jamie starts to snap at her, but the wistful expression on her face brings him up short.

“Yeah, nah, she don’t,” he answers at length. “Least I _think_ she don't. Still gets pissy at me, but now she’s yellin’ at me for bein’ hardheaded instead’a yellin’ at me for existin’.”

“Well at least she never tried to _kill_ you _,_ ” Hana says under her breath, “Or, you know, any of the rest of us.”

Lena winces slightly. Lúcio cuts his eyes at Hana; she sighs, tossing the measuring tape across the room onto her bed as she scribbles down the last measurement on her forearm.

“I’m sorry, Lena,” she says after a moment. “I just...I’m just gonna shut up.”

Lena smiles again, but even Jamie - bewildered as he is - can see that it’s forced.

“It’s okay,” she says brightly. “Think I’m gonna go try and find somethin’ to wear next weekend, though. Cheers!”

There is a faint _poof!_ sound; Jamie jumps, startled, but when he turns around Lena is gone. It startles him every time, the way she appears and disappears without warning, but what startles him more is the way Lúcio turns on Hana. The two of them rarely argue about anything more serious than video games, but this time Lúcio looks genuinely angry.

“Give her a break, Hana!” He says. “She can’t just turn her feelings off.”

“I _know,”_ Hana replies, exasperated. “Lúcio, I _know,_ but Widowmaker nearly killed her. _And_ Mei, _and_ Hanzo, _and_ Jamie!”

“Yeah, and Reyes nearly killed Morrison, but he still carries that picture of him in his wallet, doesn’t he?” Lúcio retorts. “Doesn’t matter if _we_ think they’re beyond saving - “

“Okay but _it does though,”_ Hana snaps. “Because they’re shooting at _us_ too!”

"We ought to respect their feelings -"

"Their _feelings_ are gonna get us killed!"

Before Lúcio can open his mouth to respond, Jamie inserts his metal hand between them, waving it a few times for good measure.

“Oi,” he says. “Anyone care ta fill me in, or should I just go fuck meself?”

Hana turns away from them both with a rueful laugh, then flops down into her desk chair and reaches for her headphones.

“Lúcio can fill you in, Jamie,” she says. “I’ve gotta send your measurements in, then I’m gonna get setup to stream.”

Lúcio scrubs a hand down his face, clearly frustrated, but as he motions Jamie out the door he says, “Let’s go work on that soundblast bomb and I’ll explain.”

"Will you tell Lena she can come back later tonight, if she wants?" Hana asks; she doesn't even turn around to look at them when she speaks. "Tell her we can watch that freaking  _Doctor Who_ movie she's been talking about for the past year. And tell her I promise not to make fun of it."

Jamie raises an eyebrow, baffled, but Lúcio only laughs softly, as if Hana's request had been expected.

"Yeah, sure. I'll tell her."

 

**_One Week Later_ **

“I can’t believe I’m doin’ this,” Jamie mumbles.

Once again he is standing in the middle of Hana’s room, arms spread out into a T.

This time he’s wearing a suit.

Well, _most_ of a suit - part of the right sleeve has been burned off to allow for his bionic arm.

“I think it works for him,” Lena says, spinning in Hana’s desk chair. “Lúcio?”

“Kinda edgy. Definitely a Junkrat touch,” he replies, grabbing onto the arms of the chair to keep from falling out of Lena’s lap as she spins.

Hana huffs through the pins held between her teeth. “Okay, but you really didn’t have to _burn_ the sleeve off, Jamie. You could have just used _scissors_ like a civilized human being.”

“Ain’t my fault ya didn’t think ta measure for it,” he replies irritably. “Besides, I ain’t exactly civilized, mate.”

“Ain’t _that_ the truth.”

Lúcio, Lena, Hana, and Jamie all glance toward the open door at once, like children caught doing something mischievous. The fact that it’s Morrison standing there doesn’t particularly help matters.

“Roadhog tells me it took you five showers just to get the grease from under your nails,” he says, cocking a scarred eyebrow at Jamie. “That true?”

“Oi, it was _two,_ thank ya,” Jamie grumbles. “I do bathe sometimes, ya know. Explodin’ shit is just dirty work. No sense showerin’ in the mornin’ if I’mma be grotty ‘round the arvo, yeah?”

“Well whatever the hell you just said, you clean up decent,” Morrison answers. “And at least I know where my sewing kit went - you could have just _asked_ me, Hana.”

“Sorry, Jack.” She grins sheepishly through the pins. “You’ve been so busy, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Sort of,” she says. “I can pin it right, but...I’m not sure how to take it up afterward. I was gonna ask you to do it when I brought the kit back.”

Morrison sighs, but there is a hint of a smile playing around his mouth nonetheless. “Fine. Drop it all off by my room when you’re done. And next time, _ask me._ I mean it. That kit used to belong to a friend, I’d hate to lose it.”

“I will, I promise!” Hana tips him a little salute.

“Good.”

He turns to leave then pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Jamie.

“Mei is down in her lab building herself a new endothermic whatever-it-is,” he says. “Just so you know.”

Jamie flips him off with his metal hand; Morrison's laughter echoes down the hallway.

“Why’s the old man got a sewin’ kit, anyway?” Jamie asks. “Don’t seem all that soldierly of a hobby ta me.”

“Reyes could sew,” Lúcio says. “I think anyway. I heard Dr. Ziegler say something about how he made his own Halloween costumes. He probably taught Mr. Morrison how at some point.”

“Ain’t that cute,” Jamie says. “They can stitch each other up next time they try ta kill each other, yeah?”

“They would,” Hana mumbles. “When it came down to it, anyway. Jamie, _hold still before I stab you with this pin_.”

“Still can’t believe I let ya get me in this damn monkey suit,” he mutters, scowling as he squares his shoulders and straightens his arms. “Roadie’s gonna laugh his mask off.”

“Maybe, but it’s gonna knock Mei for a loop,” Lena remarks. “Jack’s right, you _are_ a bit fit now you’re cleaned up.”

A blush creeps across Jamie’s cheeks, and this time there’s no dirt to hide it.

“Every time!” Lúcio laughs. “Every time we say her name, man -”

“ _Shut it,”_ Jamie growls. “It’s just hot in this damn suit, okay?”

“I don’t know why you’re so shy about it,” Hana says, tucking a pin into the cuff of his trousers. “We all know.”

“Know _what?”_ He snaps. “Fuck all, that's what.”

“Might as well give up the act, dude,” Lúcio says. “Mr. Rutledge as good as told us.”

Jamie mumbles something that sounds a lot like _That bastard,_ and Lúcio laughs again.

“All we did was ask if you ever talked about Mei,” Lena says. “Since you’re so snippy about it around us. And he said -”

“I said you never shut up about her.”

Everyone but Jamie nearly jumps out of their skin at the sound of Roadhog’s low, muffled voice; Lúcio is so startled that he falls out of Lena’s lap to the floor.

Roadhog stands just outside the doorway, one massive hand propped against the wall as he leans down to see into the room.

“Sure are quiet for such a big dude, Mr. Rutledge,” Lúcio says, getting to his feet. “Do you need Jamie for something?”

“No,” Roadhog grunts. “Met Morrison in the hall. Came to see the suit.”

“Yeah, well, now ya seen it, ain’t ya?” Jamie grumbles. “Honestly, mate, how could ya give me up like that?”

“So you’d stop _talking_ and _do_ something about it, idiot,” Roadhog retorts.

Jamie opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is incoherent, indignant spluttering. Roadhog lets out a huff of grim laughter.

“Don't let him open his mouth,” he advises, standing up to continue on his way. “If she doesn’t have to listen to his voice the suit might actually work.”

Hana, Lena, and Lúcio try valiantly to stifle their snickering; Jamie only glares, his freckled cheeks flaming.

“Thanks for the vote a’confidence, ya cunts!” he says, speaking loud enough for Roadhog to hear down the hall. “Really appreciate all the support!”

“Sorry, Jamie,” Lena says, still trying to suppress a giggle.

“In a pig’s arse ya are,” he mutters, “I’ve half a mind ta - “

Hana cuts him off as if he had never opened his mouth, still speaking through a couple of pins.

“Hey Jamie, do you think Mr. Rutledge would hook me if I asked him for an impression of that bad guy from those old _Star Wars_ movies?” she asks. “Just curious.”

“His name was Darth Vader, I saw the remakes,” Lúcio interjects, “And _wow_ , Hana, isn't that kinda rude?”

“I know, I know." She waves her hand. “But I started thinking about those movies every time he talked because it made him less creepy, but that was right when he got here. And now he’s not creepy at all but I still can’t stop thinking about it, you know?”

“If ya ask on a bad day he might get creepy again quick,” Jamie answers. “But seems ta me like he's havin’ less a’those. Must be, if he's willin’ ta tell tales on me. Bastard.”

“To be fair, Jamie, it _is_ kinda obvious,” Lúcio says. “To us, anyway, but we’re around you almost as much as Mr. Rutledge. Not sure if anyone else has noticed.”

“Winston did,” Lena remarks. “And Genji, and Zenyatta -”

“Oi, now even the bloody _bots_ know,” Jamie sighs. “Fuckin’ lovely.”

“Don't call them _bot_ like that, dude,” Lúcio says sharply. “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll watch me mouth,” Jamie says. “Hate not ta get paid for somethin’ like bein’ rude ta the _machinery_.”

Lúcio takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, mumbling something under his breath in Portuguese; Lena rolls her eyes.

“Like the money is _really_ the only reason you're still here,” she says.

“A’course it's the money, what else would it be?” Jamie retorts. “Me an' Roadie ain't like the rest a’you lot. All I care about is gettin’ paid an’ keepin’ the law off my arse, while still gettin’ ta blow shit ta Kingdom come.”

“So is that why you stayed up until three in the morning with me last week working on that soundblast bomb?” Lúcio asks. “You know, the one that _doesn't_ explode people into tiny pieces?”

“I ain't exactly allowed much leeway with the collateral damage,” Jamie replies, sounding rather disappointed. “Too many folks die, don't get paid. Don't get paid, ain't happy.”

“Uh huh,” Lena nods, raising a knowing brow. “So who’s been payin' you to look up all this stuff on Talon, then?”

“Don't hurt nothin’ ta do your research,” he mutters. “Besides, bastards knew we were comin’. _Had_ ta have, only reason they’d’a showed up. That Watchpoint ain’t exactly a great strategic location no more. I wanna know how they knew. I don't like bein’ outfoxed.”

“It's not your job to be the fox in the first place,” Hana points out. “That’s Blackwatch stuff. Aren't you the one who said you were just gonna toss the bombs wherever Winston pointed and then sleep like a baby at night?”

“Well we know _that_ was a lie,” Lúcio says before Jamie can speak. “Dude doesn't sleep, period. Like, at all.”

“I do too,” Jamie snaps. “Just...not much.”

“Can't fall asleep for thinkin’ about her, huh?” Lena teases. “I know the feeling.”

Hana’s mouth sets into a grim line and Lúcio abruptly changes the subject before she can say a word, stepping close to Jamie and tilting his head back to look up at him.

“Dude, how tall are you?” he asks. “I’ve never seen you stand up straight for this long before.”

“I dunno, mate,” Jamie answers; his posture sags a little, as if he dislikes the attention. “Never bothered ta find out.”

“He’s like 195cm, I remember from measuring him last week,” Hana says, accepting the distraction. She rises to her feet and stands back-to-back with Jamie. “Look at this…damn it, Jamie, stand up straight!”

Jamie rolls his eyes as he straightens his back and knees again; the left one pops and the right one creaks as he rises to his full height, and Lena laughs, clapping her hands for a moment.

“You should stand up straight more often, luv,” she says. “That height is impressive.”

Jamie scowls, sinking back into his slouch almost defensively. “Luggin’ the RIP-Tire around weighs ya down, okay?!”

“Relax, dude. That was a compliment,” Lúcio says, then adds, “You and tiny little Mei are gonna be cute as _hell_ together!”

Jamie blushes again, and this time he doesn't bother with pretense.

“She ain’t gonna say yes even if I _do_ ask her,” he mutters, “So I dunno why you lot are puttin’ me through this -”

“Now you don't know that!” Lena says. “Hana, are you done with the pinning?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she replies, taking a step back to look at Jamie. “You know, Lena, you’re right, the burned off sleeve _does_ work for him. Somehow.”

Jamie only scowls at them. “That mean I can take this off now?”

“Yeah, sure. Just be careful of the pins,” Hana answers, pointing him toward her bathroom; he stalks off to change and slams the door behind himself.

“She _is_ gonna say yes, right?” Lúcio asks in a whisper, turning toward Lena.

“Almost positive,” Lena whispers back. “I asked her last night if she’d thought of asking him herself and she said she hadn't, but she turned beet red when she said it. Pretty sure she thinks he’s not gonna go at all!”

“I hope she says yes,” Hana mumbles, and pops her gum. “If she doesn’t Mr. Rutledge will never be in a good mood and I’ll never get to ask him to say the thing.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ Don't, don't wake me up, 'cause I hate who I am today... _   
>  Who Are You Now - Sleeping With Sirens   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Jamie's foul mouth; my lack of an Aussie-picker; thought processes akin to hearing voices; very minor self harm; minor blood; implied (as in you might see if if you stand on your head and squint) MercyRoad.

**_That Evening_ **

_No point in askin’ her shit._

Jamie rolls over onto his left side, dragging his pillow over his head as he goes and holding it in place with his metal arm.

_She ain't part a’the plan so there's no point in askin’ her shit. Stay here an’ keep me head down._

It's the practical, sensible thing to do, and Jamie’s heart rages against it like a mad dog thrashing in its kennel. His chest is so full he can scarcely draw breath, and he rubs his fingertips over the faint scar marks his teeth had left in his palm - scar tissue built out of scar tissue, really, but Mei had had no way of knowing that. She couldn't have known. She had barely spoken to him before that night, so she couldn't know that he _always_ does that when he takes his arm off -

_\-- blood like a mouthful of rusted wire head throbbing back raw face raw eyes swollen shut slivered world boots and dust and bots his teeth in his arm keep quiet keep your head down quiet quiet bite harder deeper quiet --_

Jamie bashes his metal fist against the pillow covering his head, hard enough that his ears start to ring.

She had barely spoken to him before that night, so she couldn't know that he _always_ does that when he takes his arm off; it's just as normal as Roadie going mute for weeks on end, so why had she seemed so worried?

_Don't matter. Not part a’the plan._

Except it _does_ matter. Jamie wants to tear his heart out of his chest to escape just how much it matters.

_She wouldn't say yes no matter what, so it don't matter. Don't fuckin’ matter. Stay here in me bed keep quiet keep me head down don’t fuckin-_

He rolls out of bed abruptly, flinging his pillow against the wall with far too much force as he crosses the room to face the cracked, full-length mirror propped next to his worktable. He stands too close to it, as if trying to invade his own personal space; his lip curls in disgust and he straightens up, his head disappearing from view as he rises to his full height.

“Massive improvement, really,” he mutters to himself. “But what in fuck do I do with…”

He crosses his arms over his chest, then grunts in annoyance.

“Maybe somethin’ more casual like…?”

He tries putting his hands on his hips instead, and holds the pose for only a moment before he thinks of Mei - Mei how she’s been these last few weeks, appearing in the doorway of his bunker at all hours of the night, glaring up at him with her hands on her hips and ranting at him about explosions at 3AM and putting something on his burns.

His heart stutters in his chest and Jamie slams a fist against his breastbone.

“Watch it, ya drongo,” he mutters. “None a’that shit.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets only makes him want to slouch. Keeping one hand in his pocket looks a little better...at least until he realizes that he doesn’t know what to do with the other one.

“Rather defuse a fuckin’ time bomb in a pit a’cut snakes,” he grumbles, glaring at his reflection, still unused to how long and gangly his arms and legs appear when he stands without slouching, still unsure what the hell to do with them when he goes to talk to Mei.

If he goes to talk to her.

_No sense in askin’ her shit._

“Ain't never been all that sensible,” he says to himself. “Can ya shut the fuck up, brain?”

_She ain't gonna say yes._

“Yeah, thanks heaps,” he sighs, then leans forward and slams his forehead against the glass.

“Nothin’ but fuckin’ knees an’ elbows anyway,” he mutters. “Look like a bloody huntsman.”

“That mean I can finally squash you?”

“Fuck off, Roadie.” Jamie speaks without missing a beat, as if as if Roadhog had been present the entire time. He turns away from the mirror and throws himself down across his unmade bed. “Ain't on speakin’ terms with ya. Traitorous cunt.”

“Best news I've heard all day,” Roadhog says. “Or would be. I don't make you talk to her you'll start whining about her again. Don't matter how pissed off you are.”

Jamie starts to speak, but before he can get a word out his tank top tightens along his throat and under his arms as Roadhog lifts him out of bed by his shirt.

“Fuckin’ hate ya, mate,” Jamie says as he is set down in front of the mirror once again. “Mean it.”

“I’ll live,” Roadhog replies, and his voice gives Jamie pause.

He spins on his peg leg and looks up, scowl melting off his face as he realizes that he can see Roadhog’s eyes. The only thing covering his face is a black bandana, and the vice grip in Jamie’s chest loosens somewhat at the sight.

“Roadie! Ya ain't wearing the thing!” He cries, broad mouth widening into a grin. “Did ya get where ya only need it while you're fightin’, or what?”

“Don't need it _today_ is all,” Roadhog answers gruffly, but there is a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he speaks. “Don't change the subject, rat. You're gonna talk to her. Carry you to her lab myself if I have to.”

“Okay, okay, but _Roadie,_ I ain't seen you without the oxygen mask but _once_ -”

“I'm aware,” Roadhog sighs.

“Ain't ya gonna tell me what happened, though?” Jamie asks, bouncing slightly on the toes of his foot. “Was it Dr. Ziegler? Bet it was, ya been talking to her more than me lately - awe, ain't I good enough for ya anymore, big guy? How could ya just abandon me like that, bet she's not even a real blonde!”

He laughs, mostly at himself.

“She’s a genius, ya know, just imagine what she could do with -”

“Do you want a date or do you wanna die?” Roadhog interrupts. “Because I’m thinking you wanna die.”

His voice is so sinister even without his mask that it would likely have stopped even Morrison in his tracks, but Jamie only laughs again.

“Oi, now why can't _I_ sound that intimidatin’ when _I_ make threats?” He asks. “I might coulda shut Lúcio an’ Hana an’ Lena up right off - I keep tellin’ ya, ya gotta teach me, mate.”

“No,” Roadhog says. “Not teaching you to scare people you care about, rat. Now -”

“Oi, I don't _care_ about ‘em -”

“For the love of _Christ_ shut up -”

“And I ain't a Christian either!”

The front of Jamie’s shirt disappears into a giant fist; he is lifted up off the ground until Roadhog is glaring him in the eye.

“I will make you squeal like a stuck pig until Mei comes _running,”_ he says softly. “Now shut. The fuck. Up.”

Jamie mimes zipping his lips and Roadhog sets him back down.

“Stand up -”

“Oh bloody hell, fine, yeah,” Jamie sighs, rolling his shoulders irritably as he straightens up again. “Ya happy?”

Roadhog grunts slightly. “Look better than you have, anyway,” he says, crossing his huge arms across his chest. “Hair’s growing back. Why?”

Jamie looks away as he lifts his left hand and runs his fingers through his hair. “Mei keeps naggin’ me every time she sees me snatchin’ at it,” he admits after a moment. He tucks his hand back into his pocket, still avoiding Roadhog’s eyes.

“She been watching you work, then?”

Jamie shrugs. “Sometimes. ‘Bout once a week I fuck somethin’ up that makes a loud noise, ya know that. She comes ta check on me.”

“Uh huh.” Roadhog nods. “So she was the one put that bandage on your hand last month?”

Jamie slouches again, pushing his hands even deeper into the pockets of his cutoff shorts.

“So what if she did?” He asks, scowling. “Told her ta leave it alone -”

“Shut up,” Roadhog sighs. “You think she’s gonna say no, don’t you?”

“Of _course_ she’s gonna say no, Roadie!” Jamie answers. “Look at me!”

“Sounds like she has been. Voluntarily, even.”

“Just ‘cause she checks on me when I blow shit up an’ nags me not ta yank my hair out don't exactly amount ta her bein’ in love with me, mate,” Jamie replies. “Besides, I ain't...I ain’t…”

“Ain't what?” Roadhog asks. He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“I ain't exactly in her league, alright?” Jamie snaps, throwing himself down on his bed once more. “We ain't the heroes here, Roadie. We just work for ‘em.”

“Little old for believing in heroes, rat,” Roadhog says, more exasperated than unkind. “But fine. Tell me who’s a hero.”

Jamie answers before he even has a chance to stop himself.

“She is!”

He doesn't have to see him to know that Roadhog is rolling his eyes, but there’s no curbing his tongue now. He plows on, far too used to filling Roadhog’s silences to stop himself running his mouth, and the words spill out as if he has been about to choke on them for weeks.

“She’s been fightin’ against the kinda bullshit goin’ on in the Outback most all her life, all the shit that makes that place fuckin’ hell on earth is what she’s been workin’ to prevent or reverse or both, and she didn't even let bein’ froze solid for years slow her down, Roadie, an’ here I am, fuckin’ _born_ outta that hellhole, outta everything she’s fightin’ against, so yeah, nah, mate, I ain't anywhere _near_ in her fuckin’ league -”

Roadhog cuts him off.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it. Who else?”

Jamie rolls onto his back, staring up at the smoke-stained ceiling to think.

“Well Morrison,” he answers at length. “Bloke’s a total Boy Scout. An’ Dr. Ziegler’s a hero, but ya knew that already. Hell, every damn medic I've ever known is a hero, far as I’m concerned.”

“Old Man Boy Scout and the medic,” Roadhog says, ignoring the implication behind Jamie’s words. “That all you got?”

“Hana and Zarya fought the bots. So did Reinhardt, Torbjorn, Ana. Pharah’s a war hero. Satya shook off being _brainwashed_ since _childhood._ Lena’s a hero to just about every kid ever, an’ don't get me started on Lúcio. Hell, _Winston_ is the one that recalled ‘em all, so he's runnin’ the hero show. And there's Jesse an’ Hanzo -”

“Hold it,” Roadhog says. “Jesse McCree was in _Deadlock_. He joined Blackwatch to keep his ass out of prison. And the Shimadas are a clan of criminals. _Hanzo_ _tried to kill his own brother.”_

“Yeah, but both of ‘em joined Overwatch, an’ they been doin’ nothing but atonin’ ever since!” Jamie replies, sitting up and turning to look at Roadhog. “Heroes. Probably the tortured variety, but still.”

“By that logic you're atoning too, rat,” Roadhog points out. “It doesn't get much more legit than Overwatch.”

Jamie laughs mirthlessly, mouth curling into a disgusted sneer.

“This ain't legit an’ you know it, Roadie,” he says. “Legit was never part a’the plan.”

“Neither was Mei,” Roadhog retorts. “Or Lena, Lúcio, and Hana.”

Jamie starts to speak then falls silent, throwing himself back down onto his bed and rolling away from Roadhog like a petulant teenager.

“People make their own heroes, rat,” Roadhog sighs. “You show up at this stupid fancy shindig, some little rat faced kid is gonna decide you're their hero, plan or no plan.”

It takes Jamie a moment or two to process what Roadhog is saying.

_Decide you’re their hero -_

_I’m their hero -_

A visceral revulsion settles in his gut and he recoils from the idea as if from a venomous snake.

“I fuckin’ hope not,” Jamie says. He tries to laugh, but there is something so horrifying about the concept that he cannot even manage a smile. The vise is gone from his chest, replaced by a hollow, echoing emptiness.

“I really fuckin’ hope not,” he repeats quietly. He grabs for his pillow and throws it over his face. “Maybe I shouldn't go after all.”

Roadhog growls. Jamie fully expects him to walk out and slam the door, but a moment later the pillow is torn from over his head and Roadhog’s heavy hand settles on his shoulder. He is rolled over onto his back to find Roadhog glaring down at him over the edge of the bandana.

“Forget about heroes!” Roadhog snarls, the barest wheeze creeping in as he raises his voice. “Hear me? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You like the girl, so nut up or shut up, rat. Now get your scrawny ass out of bed and stand up straight so I can finish telling you whether you look decent enough to talk to a damn woman!”

Roadhog, however, does not actually wait for a reply. Jamie barely manages to keep his balance as he is jerked unceremoniously out of bed, and anger rises into his throat like acid. He bites down hard on the inside of his lower lip to keep it from bubbling out, tenses his shoulders and clenches his fists and _strangles_ it, because he _won’t -_

_Rack off motherfucker ya hear me fuck ya fuck off leave me alone stop tellin’ me what ta do don't need you don't need anyone so go fuck yourself -_

He _won't_ give in, not today. Roadhog wouldn't give a fuck one way or the other - he knows better than anyone that Jamie doesn't mean half of what he says when he's pissed off - but Jamie focuses on the bandana, thinks about that hinted smile, and keeps his mouth shut.

_Not today._

He does as he's told like a scolded child, straightening his back and knees without a word and refusing to meet Roadhog’s critical gaze. He is so tense that his entire body aches, and he wants to lash out - verbally, physically, _anything -_

_Fuckin’ dangerous ya know that so there's no reason ta ask her shit ya know you're just gonna scare her off anyway what if ya snap on her ya do that ya know ya do fuckin’ looney tunes an’ it ain’t all from the radiation -_

Roadhog snaps his fingers under Jamie’s nose.

“Fuck ya want? _”_

Roadhog swipes his thumb across Jamie’s chin and holds it up; it is smeared in blood.

“Ask her, rat,” Roadhog says, in a mild voice that might even pass for gentle. “I know what it means when you get quiet, so don't you dare get back in that bed. If you do it'll be a week before I can drag you out of it.”

“Ya wanted me ta shut up, I shut up,” Jamie mumbles, scrubbing his arm across his mouth to wipe off the blood. “Make up your mind.”

“Just ask the girl, Jamie.” Roadhog ducks out the door. “Do something to make yourself happy. Something that doesn't involve explosions.” He closes the door behind himself.

Jamie sneers and spins around to face the mirror again, muscles still so tense and stiff that he feels he might tear something; he glares at his shattered, warped reflection for what seems like an eternity, then narrows his eyes and spits a mouthful of blood across the glass.

He grabs his toolbox as he turns away and stalks out the door, heading down the corridor toward his bunker...and away from Mei.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ This could mean everything or nothing at all. _   
>  Let Love Bleed Red - Sleeping With Sirens   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Blood and sharp objects; description of a panic attack; my lack of an Aussie-picker; Jamie's foul mouth.

_This is a dream._

She is watching herself as she would watch a movie - a _horror_ movie, created especially for her.

She is in her cryopod, small fists pounding against the inside of the heavy glass cover.

_It’s a dream, just a dream._

She tries to roll over, knowing that all she needs to do to snap out of the dream is wake herself up physically as well as mentally, but nothing happens.

_A dream. It’s a dream. It’s a dream and I can move, I can move -_

She can't move.  A great weight seems to be pressing down upon her from above, crushing her lungs and turning her limbs to lead.

_Not real. Night terror. I can move._

She watches, helpless, as her knuckles split open on the inner glass of her cryopod. She watches herself scream, bright red-painted nails clawing through the blood, and she can't breathe.

Real or not, dream or not, Mei can't _breathe,_ and panic spirals to life inside her chest like the furious scribbling of a toddler as her point of view begins to shift.

_Dream,_ she tells herself, even as the dream becomes first person, as if she is truly peering out of the bloodstained glass of the cryopod.

_A dream,_ but she is clawing at the smooth bloody glass, clawing until her nails begin to peel back, and she needs to scream, she needs to scream she needs to scream she needs to _breathe -_

Mei bolts upright like a drowning person breaking the surface of the water, sucking in desperate, heaving gulps of air as she struggles to throw off the bedcovers.

_A dream_ , but the erratic pounding of her heart does not care. _Only a dream,_ but she still cannot get enough air into her lungs, and when she looks around her dark little bedroom the scribble of panic in her chest expands until it seems as if the four walls will never be able to hold it in.

She stumbles out of bed, tripping over the tangled sheets and hitting her knees, but the pain is distant compared to the urgent need for _space._ She scrambles to her door and throws it open so quickly that it crashes into the wall, bouncing back with such force that it closes behind her as she dashes blindly toward the central area of the floor.

Her field of vision is narrowing, and it no longer matters that Mei knows the reason why. Her self-awareness is useless now, a quiet, meek little voice drowned out by a frantic shriek that urges her to escape, _escape escape escape escape -_

Her hip smashes hard into the edge of a lab table and Mei cries out, dodging away from it only to bump into another table behind herself; her chest contracts, the panic expands, and she barrels forward, clutching at the ragged stitch of pain in her chest, wishing she could tear it open, crack her sternum and pry apart her ribcage to release the prickling static scribble around her lungs, but it only grows and grows and presses harder and she can’t _breathe,_ can’t breathe can’t breathe can’tbreathe, and before she can stop herself she crashes headlong into another table.

She falls backward and lands hard on her butt, glass lab equipment shattering all around her, but she can’t stay still. She _can’t._ She scrambles forward on her hands and knees, so desperate for _space_ and _air_ that she barely notices the glass shards sinking into her soft skin like knives into fruit. All but blinded by tears and tunnel vision, she crawls forward; pain is secondary to the need to flee, the need to _breathe -_

Someone grabs her around the waist and lifts her up off the floor and Mei flails, struggling like a feral cat against the arms that hold her, but she isn’t strong enough to throw them off.

_Trapped, trappedtrappedtrapped can’t get away can’t escape can’t breathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe - !_

Her chest is so tight that she’s suffocating and she digs her nails into the arms locked around her waist, clawing at them as she had clawed at the glass of her cryopod, sobbing and begging incoherently to be let go.

“You’re all right, Miss Mei, you’re all right! Gonna let ya go as soon as I get ya away from all this glass, cross me heart, yeah? You’re all right!”

_Royt._

Mei jerks her shoulders, readying herself to drive an elbow into whoever has caught her -

_Royt. Not ‘right’ more like ‘royt.’_

Mei stops clawing at the arms around her waist, stops struggling despite every instinct she has screaming at her to fight. She struggles to take a tiny, painful breath, barely enough air to speak.

“JamieputmedownpleaseIcan’t _breathe -”_

“Here ya go - if you’re gonna run, run straight ahead, yeah?”

He sets her on her feet near the First Aid station, and Mei nearly _does_ run - she _wants_ to run, but when she tries to take a step the world tilts drunkenly and the floor rises up to meet her with alarming speed.

“Whoa now,” Jamie says, catching her around the waist again. “Maybe ya better just sit, c’mon…”

He slips his living arm around her back as Mei clutches his metal hand, and he guides her the few steps to the First Aid station table - the very same table they had used the night she bandaged his hand, Mei realizes, and she wonders if this is how he had felt, this fierce humiliation that is bubbling up in her throat as the adrenaline leaves her system.

She all but collapses on the bench, propping her elbows on her thighs. She is just about to bury her face in her hands when she finally gets a good look at the damage.

Her palms are smeared in blood, flecked with glinting slivers of glass. The sight of it is almost enough to bring the panic back; the scribble in her chest rises ever so slightly as her mind flashes to the image of blood smeared across the inner glass of her cryopod, but before the thought can get much further she squeezes her eyes closed and takes a deep, deep breath.

_In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Again._

It takes nearly a minute for her to feel calm enough to open her eyes. When she does, the sight of her bloody palms only makes her cringe in embarrassment.

“All right?” Jamie asks, and Mei can hear the hesitation in his voice. She turns her head to look at him.

He is sitting at a distance on the same bench, angled toward her with his left leg pulled up. Mei can’t see much more than that; she is painfully nearsighted without her glasses.

“A little,” she answers, looking back down at her injured hands. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, nah, no worries,” Jamie answers. “Wasn’t asleep.”

Mei smiles briefly. “Of course you weren’t.”

“Do ya want some help with…?”

She laughs; it is short, soft, and a little bitter.

“No,” she answers, “But I need it. So I will try not to act like a tit about it.”

She hears Jamie snicker to himself as he moves to grab some supplies off the shelves behind them. Mei turns, swinging one leg over the bench until she’s straddling it.

“Just sit across from me like this,” she sighs, settling her hands palm-up on her thighs as Jamie begins to set things on the table. “You’ll probably have to get close to pick out all the shards. I’m sorry, I know you were probably working on something, I hate to keep you…”

“Ya ain’t keepin’ me from much,” Jamie answers, stepping over the bench to sit in front of her. “Was just fuckin’ around anyway. Let’s see.”

“Okay,” she sighs, looking up at him. “Just make sure...you…”

Mei trails off, eyes widening ever so slightly as her mind begins to race.

_I am so tiny compared to him oh my god he’s so lean and lanky and I’m so chubby I never noticed how much that doesn’t matter he’s got to be 6’6 when he stands up straight and I’m what all of 5’3 in my thickest snow boots I feel so tiny and he’s clean oh my god he’s so clean and are those oh no he has freckles oh no -_

“Oi, Miss Mei? What’s with the look? I ain’t on fire or nothin’ am I?”

He leans down a little as he speaks and Mei’s heart does a strange little stutter in her chest as their eyes meet. She is used to his burning out of his soot-blackened face like hellfire; now they shine like candle flame, and Mei tears her eyes away to look down at her lap, cheeks blazing.

“No, no, you’re not,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry, that was so rude, I just...I’ve never seen you so clean before.”

“Oh, that.” Jamie laughs, but it’s a hesitant, nervous sort of sound; when Mei looks up at him again he averts his eyes, focusing on tearing open an antibacterial wipe.

“I uh...I ain’t been workin’ long tonight,” he says, “Actually went t’bed after showerin’ earlier, but uh...I...I couldn’t sleep.”

Mei knows that he’s lying. She has had enough conversations with him by now to know that he rarely stumbles over his words or stutters unless he’s lying; lying actually requires him to think about what he’s going to say.

She doesn’t push him, however. She only nods, watching as Jamie scrubs the antibacterial wipe over his hands. When he tosses it aside it has only barely turned grey. Mei marvels at the difference, remembering how it had taken her five soaked almost-black to clean him up before.

“All right, Miss, lemme see,” he says, picking up a pair of tweezers in his living hand. “Might take a bit, doin’ it left-handed, but I can’t exactly feel well enough for delicate shit like this with the right one.”

“It’s okay,” Mei says, and when he holds out his right hand she places hers in it, palm up. “I don’t think I can go back to sleep tonight anyway.”

Jamie turns her palm until the light catches a sliver of glass. He plucks it out carefully, wiping the tweezers on a gauze pad nearby.

“Do ya, um…” Jamie plucks out another small piece of glass. “Do ya wanna talk about it…?”

“No,” Mei says softly. “No. Nothing against you, Jamie. I just...not right now.”

He shrugs. “I don’t take it personal, no worries.”

Jamie’s metal hand is warm against hers, surprisingly gentle as he turns her hand this way and that to check for other bits of glass he may have missed. He talks as he works, telling rambling stories about the circumstances surrounding various injuries he and Roadhog have sustained, and after a little while Mei begins to find it hard to breathe again...this time from laughing. She barely feels each piece of glass as it is pulled out, hardly notices when he finishes one hand and picks up the other.

“...had bruise on me back the shape of a ‘roo foot for weeks,” he says, and Mei laughs.

“Serves you right for teasing the poor thing,” she replies. “Oh! Are you done?”

There is a tiny pile of pink-tinged glass shards glinting like diamonds on the square of gauze, and Jamie nods.

“Right, then...this the stuff ya used on me?” he asks, holding up the antibacterial ointment.

“That’s it, yes. Do you know how to wrap that around the whole hand?” Mei asks, gesturing at a roll of gauze as Jamie uses another square of the stuff to spread the ointment over her palms.

“Nah, yeah, got ya covered, mate,” Jamie mumbles. “Just because I ain’t keen on receivin’ the first aid don’t mean I don’t know how ta give it.”

“I...guess you had to do a lot of that sort of thing yourself in the Outback,” Mei says quietly.

Jamie smiles briefly. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees, beginning to wrap her hand with quick, accustomed skill. “Except the best we had for disinfectin’ most a’the time was some kinda moonshine. Or fire.”

Mei cringes. Jamie tapes the gauze in place, then wraps her other hand just as neatly.

“Thank you,” Mei says, heat rising into her cheeks. “I feel like an idiot, but do you mind…?” She gestures down at her knees. “I don’t think I can handle tweezers with my hands all wrapped up, I didn’t even think about that, sorry - I know this is probably gross -”

Jamie snorts laughter. “Blood don’t bother me, Miss,” he says, somewhere between bitter and amused.

“If you’re sure,” Mei says. “Here, let me -”

She stands up on the bench then sits on the table, legs dangling over the edge like a child. Jamie blinks up at her, clearly confused.

“You’re so tall, I figured you wouldn’t have to lean over so much this way,” she says.

Jamie’s eyes seem to grow wide, but he looks down and nods so quickly that Mei can’t be sure. He swings his peg leg over the bench and shifts between her knees and sets to work in silence. Mei bites her lip, wondering what she could have said to make him so quiet after he had talked so freely earlier.

_Unless it was reminding him about the Outback,_ she thinks, staring up at the ceiling without really seeing it. _He doesn’t seem to mind talking about it on his own, but maybe he’d rather be the one to bring it up? I guess I need to remember that next time._

She is pulled abruptly out of her own thoughts when she feels the metallic warmth of Jamie’s right hand slip beneath her thigh. It slides down her leg, behind her knee and over her calf, and she sucks in a tiny, surprised breath, her skin breaking out into tingling gooseflesh as he maneuvers her leg to prop her foot against the bench below.

“Sorry, Miss, sorry,” he mumbles. “Ya didn’t seem ta hear me -”

“No, sorry, were you asking me to move?” She pushes her bangs out of her face with one bandaged hand. “It’s fine, Jamie, I was the one not paying attention.”

Once again, all he does is nod before setting to work once more, picking out the last few glinting slivers from her right knee before moving on to the next.

She watches him carefully, wishing he would look up so that she could see his face. She doesn’t understand why he is so quiet. She isn’t certain that it’s because of her mentioning the Outback, but it is the only thing she can think of.

“Jamie?” she says softly. “I’m sorry if I upset you, talking about you having to do this kinda thing in the Outback - I won’t bring it up any more, okay?”

“Huh?” He looks up at her, one eyebrow arched in confusion. “Oh! Yeah, nah, no worries, I was just, uh...tryin’ ta concentrate, since I...uh...I can’t move ya around ta catch the light this time.”

Mei glances at him through her lashes, determined not to get distracted by those freckles again. She knows he is lying, of course, but she is still hesitant to push him. He is unpredictable in many ways, after all, and it only takes one wrong move for a candle flame to become an inferno.

“If you’re sure,” she says.

“Nah, yeah, you’re fine, Miss Mei,” he replies, plucking another sliver out of her knee.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“You know you can call me Mei, right?”

“I - uh, I just did, didn’t I?” he asks, setting the tweezers aside and reaching for another couple of antibacterial wipes.

“No, I mean - _ow,_ that stings!”

“Sorry, sorry, almost done!” Jamie wipes the tacky spots of blood from her now glass-free knees as quickly as possible. “Don’t think ya need those wrapped up, ain’t quite as bad.”

He slides down the bench then stands up, packing up the First Aid supplies and still avoiding her gaze. Mei gets to her feet as well, standing on the bench and watching him as he goes to tuck the box back onto its shelf.

“I _mean_ you don’t have to call me ‘miss.’ I’m not a schoolteacher, you know,” she continues.

Jamie turns to look at her, squinting slightly; he moves closer until he is directly in front of her, peering down at her and making a great show of studying her face.

Mei looks back up at him in defiance - not of him, but of her own nerves. He is so _close_ and so _warm;_ even though she is perched on the bench he still looms over her a little, and the scrutiny in his narrowed eyes sets her skin crawling - an _excited_ sort of crawling, though she can’t pinpoint why that should be.

“Nah, yeah, you’re right,” he says at length. “Without the glasses an’ the hair bun ya really don’t look like a schoolteacher.”

He grins. Mei sticks out her tongue, fighting not to smile back at him.

“You’re _impossible,_ ” she says, corners of her mouth twitching up despite herself.

“Never heard _that_ before,” Jamie answers, stepping back and offering her his left hand.

Mei rolls her eyes and takes it, balancing herself as she hops down off the bench.

“Between getting myself hurt and not sleeping, I’m going to end up looking like a very fancy but very unlucky raccoon tomorrow night,” she sighs, looking down at her bandaged hands for a moment before glancing up at Jamie. “But still, thank you for - Jamie?”

His expression brings her up short. His amber eyes are wide, almost stricken, and a deep blush is banded across his freckled cheeks and nose.

“Jamie?” she says again, tilting her head in concern. “Are you -”

_“Doya*mumblemumble*tathatOpenNight*mumblemumble*tomorrow?”_

Mei pauses, trying to decipher the words, then shakes her head. “You will have to slow down, Jamie.”

He nods quickly, bouncing on the toes of his foot, then takes a breath and repeats himself.

“Do ya maybe wanna go with me ta that Open Night shindig tomorrow night?"

Mei freezes.

Her instinctive response is a polite refusal -  _Oh, you could not want to go with me!_

By the time she remembers that English doesn't work that way her mind is spinning.

_Say no._

It isn’t quite the same part of her mind as before, not quite the voice of her detached rationality, but it is close, and it does not care about her blushing cheeks, her pounding heart, or her tingling spine.

It cares about _criminal_ and _madman_ and _what do I really know about him,_ about _gone far enough_ and _getting myself hurt,_ about _distance_ and _never again_ and _for my own good,_ and Mei shoves it down, shoves it away, because acknowledging it means that it's right and she can't bear for it to be right.

She releases a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. “Yes.”

Jamie blinks at her with terrified eyes for a moment, as if he cannot quite believe what she has said. Mei doesn’t blame him; she doesn’t quite believe it either, yet she cannot help but smile.

“Ya - ya _will,”_ he says. He giggles slightly, rubbing the back of his neck with his metal hand. “I - uh -”

“I will,” Mei says, shoving down every emotion that blooms in her chest at the sight of that nervous smile. “I’ll meet you before the briefing? I’d say I’d meet you down here, but I’m getting ready with Lena, so -”

“Sounds good,” Jamie answers, still smiling as if he is helpless not to. “I’ll, um...I’ll see ya, then?”

Mei nods. “And um, Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says, nodding toward the mess of shattered glass in the middle of the lab. “I’m sorry you had to, um...had to see all that. But thank you for helping me. I’ll clean up, you can go on - “

“Yeah, nah, you go on to bed, Miss Mei,” he says, waving his metal hand dismissively. “I’ll get it before mornin’, you get some sleep, yeah?”

“If you’re sure - and I’m _still_ not a schoolteacher -”

Jamie snickers, turning back down the corridor toward his bunker.

“See ya tomorrow night, Miss Mei!”

Mei huffs, scattering her bangs across her forehead and eyes, but she is just as powerless to keep from grinning as Jamie. She watches him go, hands tucked deep into his pockets; he is only barely slouching.

_What do I really know about him?_

Mei turns and heads back to her bedroom with an unusual bounce in her step, giving the central lab area and its scattered broken glass a wide berth.

_I need to stop this._

She closes her bedroom door behind herself, picks up her sheets and blankets from the floor, then makes up her bed, humming to herself.

_I know what happens when I care about people._

She crawls into bed, pulling the covers up beneath her chin as she rolls over onto her side and smiles into her pillow.

_I am going to regret this._

Despite all she had said to the contrary, she _does_ fall asleep...and she falls asleep smiling.

This time she does not wake with her nightmares.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ He just might get you lost _   
>  _ And he just might leave you torn _   
>  _ And she just might save your soul... _   
>  Rooftops & Invitations - Dashboard Confessional   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Not beta-read; not Aussie-picked; Jamie's foul mouth; heavy dialogue; implied Zarya x Tracer; implied Fareeha x Satya; implied (and denied) Hana x Lucio.
> 
> **Disclaimer** : I did my dead level best at researching traditional clothing from China, Korea, and India. All of their outfits are based on clothing I found while doing my research, but if I've made an error or overstepped some boundaries here, please let me know so that I can correct myself.
> 
> **Notes** : I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get out. My original plan for chapter 8 required a _ton_ of research, and by the time I had the outline finished I realized that everything I originally planned to include would make the chapter far, far too long. As of right now it's been split into two chapters (this chapter and chapter 9), though it's possible that could become three (this chapter plus chapters 9 and 10). Either way, some plot is coming into effect pretty soon, so enjoy this bit of fluff while you can!

Satya looms over Mei, beautiful as a goddess in _salwar kameez_ of sea-green and gold. She holds a pot of cream eyeliner in her robotic left hand and an impossibly small brush in her right.

“Close your eyes,” she says, dipping the tiny brush into the pot. “After this we are nearly finished. Tilt your head back...a little more...there.”

Mei freezes, doing her best not to move as Satya sweeps the black liner along the rim of each of her eyelids in turn. She feels as if she has been sitting still for ages now, following Satya’s instructions: _look up, look down, close your eyes, open them, turn this way, turn that way, smile, pout..._

“Oh, don’t look so _nervous,_ Mei,” Hana says from somewhere across the room. There is the familiar soft _pop_ of bubblegum before she continues, “Satya is an expert. She’s not going to make you look like a whole other person or anything.”

Satya places a finger beneath Mei’s chin, turning her head this way and that. “Ridiculous,” she says. “I cannot change someone’s face.”

“Mei isn’t used to wearin’ makeup, is all,” Lena calls from inside the depths of her closet. “She doesn’t wanna look like...like…”

“I don’t want it to overshadow the rest of me,” Mei mumbles, eyes still closed as Satya examines her features from every possible angle. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Satya replies. “But as Hana so graciously put it, I am an expert. You may open your eyes now.”

Mei blinks a few times, letting her eyes re-adjust to the light. Her mascara-thickened lashes still feel a little strange, but when Satya presents her with a handheld mirror, Mei gasps softly.

“Oh, Satya!”

All her favorite features have been given a subtle boost: her big, brown eyes, accentuated by perfectly symmetrical flicked wings of eyeliner, and the natural blush of her cheeks, enhanced and evened out with a barely-shimmering blush. Only the color of her soft, full lips is obvious, but the bright punch of red remains in harmony with the rest of her face.

“Satya, you are amazing,” Mei says, grinning broadly as she returns the mirror. “I could hug you.”

“Thank you, but please do not,” Satya answers, busying herself with putting away her makeup supplies.

“Told you.” Hana rolls her eyes, pushing bright pink gum through her teeth as she adjusts the straps of the nude onesie she has chosen to wear beneath her outfit. “Mei, will you grab my skirt?”

Mei gropes for her glasses. Lena pushes them into her hand as she walks past, her own clothes for the evening slung over one shoulder. Mei slides them on and takes care to position them low on her nose until her eye makeup is dry. She reaches behind herself into the pile of pink tulle, purple silk, and sparkling appliques that Hana’s stylist had delivered earlier. The outfit had been on hangers then, protected by a garment bag, but Hana had tossed it across Lena’s bed almost as soon as she pulled it out.

“Hana? This looks more like...oh! Is this meant to look like _hanbok?”_ Mei asks, handing over the length of tulle and silk.

“Sort of.” Hana wrinkles her nose, reaching out to take the skirt from Mei. “More like insp - Mei! What the hell happened to your hands?!”

Mei’s stomach drops, but she is careful not arouse suspicion by snatching her hands back. Instead she turns them over to look at her palms, still scored in bright red little cuts, some worse than others. The bandages are no longer necessary, but she wonders if it might have been a better idea to use them anyway.

“It was the most ridiculous thing,” she says calmly, “I knocked some glass lab equipment off a table, and when I went to find something to clean up the broken pieces with, I tripped and fell right into them instead. It wasn’t too bad, but it does look a little gruesome, I suppose.”

“Just a bit,” Hana replies, pulling a tiny pink bubble back into her mouth and popping it with her tongue. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure,” Mei nods. “What were you saying about your outfit?”

“Oh, yeah, that,” she says. “You asked if it was meant to look like _hanbok._ I think it’s more like inspired by? Like yours with the _cheongsam._ I told them I’d rather wear the real thing, but they told me something about how this was designed especially for me for this event blah blah blah…”

Hana fumbles with the tiny hidden zipper for a moment, then steps into the skirt, shimmying it up high around her waist. It is made of several layers of very sheer pink tulle that fall a little past her knees; purple hibiscus appliques, tiny and glittering, are scattered across the topmost layer. Beneath the tulle is a shorter, close-fitting skirt of purple silk.

“It is beautiful, though. I would have been happy to let someone make my outfit for the night instead of having to pick for myself,” Mei says, running her fingertips over the black lace neckline of her own dress. After a moment she flattens her hand across the lace with a nervous little laugh. “I didn’t realize that this part was going to be so sheer! It looked darker in the holo.”

She peers down the front of her dress, heat rising to her cheeks at the amount of cleavage showing. “It looked _much_ darker.”

“It’s not that I’m like...ungrateful?” Hana shrugs into the mock _jeogori,_ trimmed in matching pink and embroidered in pale purple hibiscus. “I know it’s a gorgeous outfit. I’m just burnt out on getting dressed up for things. I haven’t had to do it nearly as much since I joined Overwatch, but still...oh, Mei, stop _blushing._ The dress looks amazing on you and you know it.”

“Yeah, you look _beyond_ fit, luv,” Lena chirps, adjusting a bow tie of the same color as the light of her chronal accelerator.

Mei opens her mouth to thank them just as Lena tips Hana a ridiculous wink and adds in a stage whisper, “Bet ya Jamie spends half the night fightin’ not to look at her tits.”

Hana snickers. “No point betting on a sure thing.”

Mei throws one of Lena’s pillows at them both, cheeks blazing with color. Hana dances away. Lena catches it and tosses it back with a wicked grin. Mei jumps up, ready to return fire; Satya intercepts the pillow with her robotic arm, sighing as she transfers it back to its rightful place at the head of Lena’s bed.

“No working up a sweat until I’ve applied the setting spray,” she says. “Glasses, please.”

Mei shoots Lena a withering glance as she hands over her glasses, closing her eyes without being asked. Satya mists something across her face; after a few seconds, she sets Mei’s glasses back into place and gives her permission to open her eyes.

Mei thanks Satya once more, then turns to Lena. Forbidden to throw things, she settles for sticking out her tongue.

“Lena,” she says after a moment, “Is it...is it that bad? I didn’t think it was _that_ bad…”

Lena pushes her unruly brown hair back from her eyes, fiddling with her bow tie.

“We’re only teasin’, Mei, promise,” she says. “About the dress an’ Jamie both. I mean he’s rough ‘round the edges, yeah, but he’s not a creep. And anyway there’s nothin’ bad about bein’ stacked.”

“You’re rocking it,” Hana says, flopping down on Lena’s bed to put on her shoes. “Like, you obviously know more about clothes than just snow boots and lab coats.”

“You look gorgeous, luv,” Lena says, “But all that _really_ matters about that dress is if you feel good in it, yeah? So do you?

“I…” Mei bites her lip, turning to look into Lena’s full-length mirror.

One night just before her last semester of uni, she and her friends had gone out to a New Year’s Eve celebration. Of course she hadn’t known then that some of those friends would become her colleagues, nor that they were doomed to die while she lived on, but that night death had been the furthest thing from any of their minds.

_God, we were so young and I feel so old._

Mei runs her fingers across the high collar of her dress, trimmed in bright blue and accentuated with a little snowflake pin made of opal.

_I wore snowflake earrings that night,_ she thinks, _Snowflake earrings and that dress with the_ hanfu _style sleeves…_

The dress had been white and blue instead of blue and black, and Mei had done her own makeup and hair. She had felt beautiful looking in the mirror before she left, even more so when Torres couldn’t form a coherent sentence in her presence after she arrived. She and Opara had talked for ages about how much they both enjoyed mingling traditional and modern fashions.

_I always used to do that. I used to love it. Maybe that’s why I picked this one...but it isn’t anything like what I would have worn before._

She closes her eyes. She can see her bed from her apartment during uni, right after she had moved in, covered in her clothes, a wardrobe full of baby blues, whites and heathered grays, soft shades of pink and purple and green…

Mei opens her eyes and twists her hips a little. The dress is a liquid black satin and the swing skirt flares out a bit as she moves, showing a glimpse of the electric blue petticoat beneath. Matching blue _cheongsam-_ style trim sets off the high collar as well as the panel of black lace across her chest.

She splays her hand across the lace again. She has often thought of herself as pretty - occasionally, like that night during uni, even beautiful - but never has she thought of herself as _sexy,_ exactly.

_I wanted to be. I wanted to be but what if…_

The memories are like cobwebs.

_What if I’m laughed at?_

Mei shakes her head and takes a breath, running her fingers over the lace that only slightly obscures the tops of her pushed-up breasts.

_It really doesn’t show_ that _much...and even if it does, well..._

“Who cares?” she mumbles to herself. She twists her hips again, letting the skirt flare even wider over the colorful petticoat beneath.

She cannot recall ever feeling sexy but she feels it now, and maybe it’s because of the neckline on the dress or maybe it’s just because of how long it’s been since she dressed up -

_And maybe it’s because you want Lena to be right._

Mei smirks.

Why _shouldn’t_ she want Lena to be right? Why _shouldn’t_ she be eager to see Jamie’s reaction, to see him blushing and tripping over his words just because of her? Why _shouldn’t_ she be pleased by the idea of him desperately trying to be a gentleman, by the idea that she is that tempting, that _desirable -_

_You were in cryostasis for way too long. You know why. What if you react the same way when you see him? What then?_

Mei shrugs off her own thoughts, ignoring them and the eternally rational part of her mind they come from. It is impossible for her to envision Jamie in a suit, in anything other than ragged cutoffs and the occasional threadbare tank top; whatever he is wearing tonight, she is sure he will end up looking like a deeply awkward and uncomfortable version of himself the night before.

“And this time I’m ready for those damn freckles,” she mutters.

“Mei? You done admirin’ the view, luv?”

Mei spins around on one black wedge heel, skirt flaring out once more. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” she says, hurrying to grab her tiny bag for the evening. She checks for her ID and bank card and slips her hand through the wrist loop. “I’m ready!”

“No rush, no rush!” Lena laughs. “I just messed up my bow tie, I need a mirror to tie it back again...but looks like you feel better about the dress now, yeah?”

“Oh!” Mei steps back from the mirror. “Yes, I...I really like it, actually.”

“You do look very nice,” Satya agrees. “As do you, Lena. Your outfit suits you well.”

“Thanks!” Lena smiles brightly, adjusting the length of the bow tie ends in the mirror before beginning to loop them up. “It’s fun to dress up like this once in a while.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hana mumbles. She pops her gum, still sitting on Lena’s bed with her legs stretched out in front of her.

“I know you are not excited to be dressed up, but you look lovely as well, Hana. I...I am sure that Lúcio will think so too,” Satya says, a little hesitantly. “He is your...date, is he not?”

Hana makes a face. “Uh...yeah. He’s my date, but it’s not like...a _date_ date? That’d be weird. But don’t worry about him, Satya. He’s glad you’re with us now.”

“I am glad to be here,” Satya says, “But I do not think I understand what you mean?”

“They’re only going together as friends, is all,” Lena says, unhooking her chronal accelerator from its charging port and shrugging into the harness.

“Yes, but Mei said that she and Jamison are _also_ going as friends,” Satya points out. “You make risqué jokes about them, but not Hana and Lúcio.”

“Fair point.” Lena snickers as she finishes with her bow tie. “I know it doesn’t make much sense. Hana and Lúcio are actually just friends, though. Mei and Jamie are…”

Mei sighs. “We’re honestly just -”

“- in denial,” Hana finishes, wobbling slightly as she gets to her feet.

Mei elects not to dignify that with a response and busies herself with double-checking her bag.

“I see,” Satya says, nodding her head. “And which kind of friends are you and Aleksandra, Lena?”

Lena turns slightly pink. “Don’t think either of us know yet.”

Satya nods again. “I see. All the same, I am sure Lúcio will appreciate your appearance, Hana. Though...perhaps not in the same way Jamison will appreciate Mei’s.”

Hana snorts laughter.

“All right, if you three are _done,”_ Mei says, “We should go meet them soon. They’re probably already waiting, we don’t want _all_ of us to be late for the briefing.”

“Yes, Fareeha does not like to be late,” Satya agrees, rising elegantly to her feet and smoothing the long skirt of her _salwar kameez_. “Neither do I.”

Hana hikes up the tulle to scratch her knees. “Maybe Lúcio and I can sneak out after a couple hours,” she mumbles. “There’s an arcade in another wing of the convention center…and you guys didn’t hear that.”

“I was not listening,” Satya shrugs, stepping into the hall.

“Me neither.” Lena grins.

Mei follows them out. “Did you say something?”

* * *

 

Lúcio reaches up to adjust the black silk tie around Jamie’s neck for what seems like the twelfth time since they arrived at the door of the conference room.

“I know ya mean well, mate,” Jamie growls, metal fingers twitching, “But if ya don’t stop tryin’ ta strangle me with this thing I’m gonna be the one stranglin’ _you.”_

“Chill, dude, chill,” Lúcio says with a chuckle. “I think I’ve got it straight now, anyway. You should be all set.”

“Bloody well hope so,” Jamie mumbles, fighting the urge to shove a finger inside his shirt collar and yank it away from his throat. “Between you an’ Zarya I feel like I been sittin’ still for half me life.”

Zarya clicks her tongue. “But the grease stains under your nails are invisible now, yes?”

Jamie looks down at his left hand. It is as scarred and misshapen as ever, but _clean,_ his short nails neatened up and sporting a matte black coat of polish.

“Yeah,” he says begrudgingly. “Yeah, ya got a point, but _still -”_

“She wouldn’t have had to do it in the first place if you could have kept from tinkering with your explodey toys for _one_ night,” Lúcio reminds him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jamie grumbles. “An’ I _did_ shower this mornin’. Twice.”

_An’ how could I sleep after that anyway?_ He thinks, staring down at his nails, remembering how Mei had dug hers into his arms, fighting him as if she didn’t even realize who he was.  _What coulda done that ta her…?_

“And it _still_ wouldn’t come out?” Lúcio asks.

“Nope,” he answers. “Probably got burned in or somethin’, had a little bit of a fire ‘round sunrise.”

He flexes his right arm a couple times as he speaks, bending his elbow and trying not to wince. Removing and re-attaching his prosthetic arm so often lately seems to have resurrected the ghost of his long-lost limb; for the first time in ages he has a throbbing phantom pain there, as if the ghost resents having a bionic model take its place. It makes Jamie’s skin crawl. Always has.

_Too much like hallucinatin’...long as it don’t get worse..._

“Try to remember to stand up straight,” Fareeha sighs from behind him. “We do need to make a good impression on a multitude of people _besides_ Mei.”

Jamie scowls. “Fine.”

He straightens up until he stands taller than Fareeha and Zarya both, pulling his shoulders back and clasping his hands behind his back in a mockery of their military posture before sticking his tongue out at them both.

Zarya laughs, but Fareeha’s expression barely changes as she tilts her head to look up at him.

“Hm. I told you the eyeliner would suit you,” she says, arching the brow above her own impeccable Eye of Horus liner.

Jamie resists the childish urge to blow a raspberry in her face.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe I let you three do me up like some kinda kids’ fashion doll,” he mutters, relaxing a little. He scrubs his left hand across his mouth and adds, “Fuckin’ _eyeliner.”_

Fareeha shrugs, glancing at Zarya and Lúcio. “He looked strange without _something_ smudged under his eyes, did he not?”

“Dunno about that _,_ but it _does_ suit you, Jamie,” Lúcio says.

Jamie cuts his eyes at the three of them, threading his left hand through his unruly blond hair, the only bit of him that he’d been able to persuade them to leave well enough alone. Even in its patchy, burned state it had been difficult to tame; now that it is healthier and mostly grown back in, it is nearly impossible.

Not that he considers the way he looks _now_ to be much of an improvement.

“I look strange _period,_ ” he says darkly, tugging at the roots of his hair just short of snatching. The sleek black suit is clinging to him in all sorts of place he isn’t used to having things cling; whatever the old man had done to it had it fitting closer than even Hana’s pins, and now he is hyper-aware of his entire body, his broad shoulders and long legs, his chest and waist and arms, his _junk._ He doesn’t know how to move in clothes like this, doesn’t even really understand how to _breathe,_ and no amount of instruction or reassurance from Lúcio has helped.

What _especially_ doesn’t help is Lúcio himself, not to mention Fareeha and Zarya. Lúcio’s dark green coat and black dress pants don’t seem to fit nearly so closely as Jamie’s, and both Zarya and Fareeha look smart and formidable in their dress military uniforms.

Jamie isn’t sure what he looks like, but he _feels_ like a big, black spider - all arms and legs, knees and elbows, spiny, spindly, and revolting.

_She’s gonna regret sayin’ yes soon as she looks at me._

He snatches at his hair.

“Hey, careful, buddy, c’mon -”

Lúcio’s fingers close around Jamie’s wrist, pulling his hand out of his hair; Jamie sighs, shaking his head a little as he shoves his hand back into his pocket.

“Chill, dude,” Lúcio says. “You look great, okay?”

“Yes, you clean up quite well!” Zarya agrees; she nearly knocks the breath out of him with a pat on the back.

“It’s a distinct improvement,” Fareeha deadpans.

“Besides, you’ll thank us when Mei sees you,” Lúcio continues, a broad grin spreading across his face. “I mean, if you can even form a coherent sentence after _you_ see _her_. Hana messaged me earlier, says she’s a knockout!”

Jamie slouches slightly, tucking both his hands into his pockets and glaring down at his boot.

“Dunno what you’re on about,” he mumbles, “Mei’s gonna look like _Mei_.”

“They come now,” Zarya says. “Why not see for yourself?”

Jamie’s heart does a weird little stutter in his chest, and for a long moment he _can’t_ see for himself, too nervous to actually look up.

When he finally does, the first thing he sees is Hana, one foot held up behind herself, adjusting the strap of her shoe with one hand and balancing herself on Lúcio’s shoulder with the other.

“We are ducking out of this thing and finding the arcade as soon as possible, okay?” she mumbles under her breath. “These heels have a four-hour limit.”

He watches as Lena and Zarya greet each other cheerfully; Fareeha smiles for the first time that night as Satya walks up.

Then Jamie sees her, hurrying behind the others as if she had forgotten something, and suddenly he can’t seem to find his tongue.

Or his breath.

Or any shred of sense whatsoever.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t notice I’d dropped my bag, I had to run back and find it,” Mei says, “I hope you all weren’t wait...ing...long…”

Her words trail off as she and Jamie look at one another.

_Oh. Oh, no._

She had expected Jamie to look like his usual self, albeit awkward and fidgety in a standard tux, but this...this is not a tux, and it is anything but standard, and it _fits,_ and he looks…he looks...

_He looks so good._

His entire outfit is black as sin. The coat nips in close around his narrow waist with a single button, the breadth of his shoulders accentuated by little leather panels. His silk tie sports a dark silver tie pin in the shape of a skull. His shirt is perfectly tucked into the trousers clinging to his thighs, and the buckle of his belt is a matching dark silver, embossed with the same skull as the pin; it appears again across the toe of his boot.

_It should be funny._

She looks up at his flushed face through her lashes, trying to _make_ it funny, because it _should_ be funny that he’d dress like this, in black silk and black leather and silver skulls, like a paranormal Harlequin romance version of the devil himself. She should be laughing and teasing instead of blushing and speechless, but...

_It would only be funny if he dressed himself - if he was cocky about it - if he_ knew...

Jamie’s usual cutoffs are all at least a size too big, held up with hope and a worn belt; he owns approximately five shirts, all tank tops in various stages of ragged. The suit is far too well-tailored to be his choice, and the only thing ragged about it is the abbreviated right sleeve.

The sight of that burned-off sleeve brings a smirk to her lips, and Mei finally manages to crack a smile.

She prides herself on sounding only _slightly_ breathless when she says, “Well then. You really _do_ clean up well.”

Jamie blinks at her for a moment as the words - and the smile with which they are spoken - sink in.

“I - do ya really - I mean, th-thank ya! So do you! I - _wait,_ I mean -”

He squeezes his eyes closed and scrubs his newly-manicured hand over his mouth, which - surprise, surprise - seems to be outpacing his mind.

_Blimey, me face is hot._

He takes a breath and opens his eyes.

“Not that ya, uh, had near so much ta clean up as me,” he corrects himself, finally gaining a semblance of control over his tongue. “But, uh, yeah...ya look...I mean…”

Jamie’s metal hand wanders to the back of his neck as he tries and fails to find the appropriate words. He gives a shaky laugh. “Wow.”

Mei laughs with him. She is far too pleased by his speechlessness, but she pushes her concern away, buries it for later consideration...along with any suggestion that there might be some significance to her rapid heartbeat and flushed face.

_Now isn’t the time,_ she thinks, tucking her hand into Jamie’s offered right arm as they follow Satya and Fareeha into the conference room.

 


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ You can never get it spotless when there's dirt beneath the dirt. _   
>  Dance Little Liar - Arctic Monkeys   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Jamie's foul mouth; my lack of an Aussie-picker; a mild panic attack; thought processes that can be construed as hearing voices; dialogue heavy.
> 
>  **Notes** : I hate this chapter. I honestly do. I think it's boring and I wanted to do it another way, but the way I wanted to do it wasn't consistent with the POVs I've established, so I opted for consistency.

“And what happened here?”

Mei and Jamie both sit at an angle in their conference room chairs, facing one another as they wait for Winston to arrive, and Mei reaches across him as she speaks, toward the burned, ragged edge of his cut off right sleeve.

“Oh, _that,”_ Jamie says, “Well, ya see -”

The frayed fabric disintegrates at her touch. Mei looks up at Jamie in surprise, meaning to apologize, but as soon as their eyes meet she knows none is needed; instead they both burst into a fit of giggling.

“It ain’t me fault, I swear _,”_ Jamie says, shaking the ash onto the conference room floor without a second thought. “Hana’s the one measured me for this monkey suit, she just didn’t think ta measure ‘round the prosthetic…’course it _is_ kinda clunky, ain’t like it’d look right ta start with.”

“I like it,” Mei says, touching the faded orange metal near his inner elbow. “It suits you.”

Jamie gives her a nervous smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. “Me arm or the monkey suit?”

 _“Both,”_ she answers, rolling her eyes. “And stop calling it a monkey suit, Winston will be here soon!”

“Oi, I ain’t met enough _talkin’ space gorillas_ ta know what they’re offended by, okay?” Jamie’s smile broadens into a grin. “But, ah...considerin’ I’ve never worn a suit in me life, I appreciate ya sayin’ so, Miss Mei.”

“Jamie.” Mei gives him a look. _“Why_ do you insist on calling me that? You don’t do it to anyone else!”

“Exactly,” Jamie answers, as if this explains everything. “And I meant ta ask ya earlier, but ya look so bloody fantastic it went clean outta me head -”

Mei turns pink and looks down at her lap, glancing up at Jamie through her lashes.

“The dress,” Jamie continues, gesturing to his throat. “The collar. It’s...some kinda traditional Chinese outfit, right? Or am I an idiot?”

Mei lifts her head in surprise, a wide smile spreading across her face.

“No, you're not an idiot at all! Hana and I talked about it earlier,” she says, “It’s based on the _cheongsam,_ yes.”

“ _That,_ yeah.” Jamie nods. “Didn’t wanna embarrass meself tryin’ ta say it - I ain’t exactly great with languages.”

“I could try teaching you,” Mei offers. “Mandarin _is_ hard, but something like Spanish or French might not be so bad, and it really is a good skill to have.”

“Well I can insult ya ta hell in back in Spanish, but that’s... _wait,_ ya speak _four_ languages?!”

Mei grins. “Six, actually. I know Urdu and Swahili. I can get by in German and Japanese, too.”

Jamie blinks in astonishment. “That’s...incredible. Other than English an’ some _real_ impolite Spanish, all I got is a handful of Māori -”

Mei gasps. “Māori? _Really?”_

“Yeah, Roadie taught me.” Jamie laughs, sounding slightly sheepish. “Said I didn’t shut up in the first place so I might as well do somethin’ educational while I was runnin’ my mouth - oi, _there_ he is. ‘Bout bloody time.”

Jamie nods toward the door of the conference room; Mei faces forward reluctantly as Winston enters, folding her hands in her lap.

Jamie doesn’t move. He leaves his left arm draped along the back of her chair, his only concession to any sort of professionalism being to sit up marginally straighter.

“We’re on a tight schedule, so I won’t waste time on pleasantries,” Winston says, adjusting his glasses a little as he faces them. “First off, I would like to acknowledge those who are not present. Zenyatta, Bastion, Mr. Rutledge, Mr. Lindholm, the younger Mr. Shimada and the elder Ms. Amari are all currently on assignment. They were briefed on tonight’s announcements prior to their departure. Their absence is regrettable but unavoidable, and makes your presence that much more important.

“As you all know, tonight is the Open Night event. It was organized over the course of several months, and after a great deal of discussion, negotiation, and preparation, the moment of truth has arrived. This evening will be instrumental in determining whether Overwatch will once again be formally recognized by the U.N.

“The truth of the matter is that up until now we have been operating illegally. We have only remained unchallenged for this long due to the current state of global unrest. Many members of the U.N. have simply had too much on their plates in their home countries to concern themselves with us. That is no longer the case.

“With high-profile people from various nations joining our ranks over the past two years…” Winston pauses briefly, nodding in the direction of Hana, Lúcio, Zarya, and Fareeha. “We have reached a point where the public demand for a statement from both ourselves and the U.N. can no longer be ignored. As such, it was requested that I open talks with the U.N. in order to organize this event. And yes, I said _requested._

“This brings me to my announcement. As you all know, it was I who issued the recall command two years ago. I hardly expected anyone to answer, but answer you did, one by one. Among the last of the original members to answer was Jack Morrison himself, former Strike Commander of Overwatch. I will spare the new generation the details of his return; suffice it to say that many of us believed him dead.”

Winston takes a deep breath.

“Since I issued the recall command I have been the public leader of Overwatch,” he says. “But I have not been its true leader for quite some time. I apologize to those of you who were brought in by me and hope you do not feel that you were recruited or contracted under false pretenses. I was acting under specific orders when I contacted each of you. The true leader of Overwatch is - and has always been - Strike Commander Jack Morrison.

“Most of the world outside Overwatch still believes him dead. Up until this point that was the most prudent position for him to be in. Under the circumstances, Commander Morrison has decided that a certain degree of transparency is required if the U.N. is ever to trust a second generation of Overwatch. This evening when I am scheduled to deliver a statement on behalf of Overwatch, he will reveal himself and do so in my stead.

“Commander Morrison will continue the briefing. Thank you for your time.”

The silence in the conference room is absolute but for the sound of Mei’s pulse pounding in her ears.

She had known Morrison before, though she had not known him well; she had been on assignment in Antarctica for the majority of her time with the original Overwatch. When she had heard how things ended…well. She had never questioned why Morrison did not step up and reclaim his position post-recall. After everything that had happened, it stood to reason that he would forego leadership, that he would prefer the anonymity of Soldier: 76.

Or she _thought_ it had stood to reason.

_Can he do this again?_

A chill creeps up her spine as Morrison steps forward and Winston steps down.

_Should he…?_

* * *

 

Jack Morrison stands at the head of the conference table, a white-haired old man in a dark blue suit and red tie.

Jamie’s jaw tightens. He likes Morrison…

_\- false pretenses all right knew I couldn't trust these cunts never shoulda let me guard down knew who he was an’ still didn't use me head shoulda fuckin’ known can't trust military can't trust nobody -_

...but he doesn’t trust the Soldier.

The old man touches something near his jaw; a soft _click_ resounds through the silence and the vibrant glow of the visor field grows dim. He pulls the mask away from his face and sets it on the table.

His expression is so blank and stoic that he might as well have left the mask on.

 _\- yeah nah this ain’t Morrison Morrison’s that grumpy old vet fussin’ at Hana teasin’ ya over Mei thisthis_ this _is that sonofabitch Soldier that barks orders at ya on missions til ya wanna shove a frag up his ass an’ the difference in ‘em is wider than the whole fuckin’ Outback -_

Jamie waits, watching Morrison warily, expecting him to launch straight into a Boy Scout speech about how they should all be on their best behavior.

That isn’t what happens.

Instead, Jamie finds some of Morrison’s humanity bleeding back into his scarred face as the he turns to look him in the eye.

“I want you to know that I was _adamant_ on bringing you and Mr. Rutledge in,” he says. “As good as Torbjörn is, we needed an explosives expert on board. You made it damn clear all across the world that you were an expert. I wasn’t thrilled about it at first and I still don’t much like how you operate, but I don’t have to like it. You and Mr. Rutledge have held up your end of the contract perfectly. I couldn’t ask for better work and I’m glad I made the call to bring you in.”

Jamie takes a beat longer to react than he would prefer, his mind stuttering over Morrison’s words.

_\- adamant on bringin’ you in explosives expert adamant expert couldn’t ask for better glad he made the call couldn’t ask adamant expert gladgladglad SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP -_

He forces a grin. It isn’t polite, or pretty - in truth it feels more as if he’s baring his teeth in a silent snarl.

_\- can’t trust ‘em can’t trust ‘em fuck what he’s sayin lied before lying now can’t trust ‘em can’t trust ‘em can’t trust any of ‘em -_

“Damn straight I’m an expert,” he says, his voice unusually low as he meets those piercing blue eyes with his own. “An’ I don't much like bein’ lied to.”

Morrison says nothing. For a moment the tension between them is so taut that it seems as if one wrong breath might shatter the very air in the room.

Jamie’s heartbeat thuds heavily in his temples and his mind seems to _stretch,_ a thin band of sanity holding back everything he has ever known up until this point.

\- _don’t give ‘em the chance never give ‘em the chance kill ‘em first kill ‘em before they kill ya ‘cause they’re gonna kill ya gonna kill ya ‘cause you’re nothin’ fuckin’ nothin’ fuckin’ trash fuckin’ junker fuckin’...rat… -_

Through the black silk shirt and the fitted black coat, Jamie feels the pressure of Mei’s shoulder nudging against his.

It’s a small thing, such a small thing when compared to the riot of black thoughts in his mind, but it only takes that split second of distraction for the snarl of anger to recede, easing the tension in his mind and body both, even if only by a little.

With an effort, Jamie manages to turn his near-feral expression into an approximation of an actual smile, relaxing just enough to nudge his shoulder against hers in response.

“But keep holdin’ up your end, old man,” he says, sounding a little more like his usual self. “I’ll keep holdin’ up mine.”

\- _liar oh you liar oh you goddamn fuckin’ liar -_

“I intend to,” Morrison answers. “That’s why I’m telling you up front that the nature of your workload is about to change - yours and several others’.”

Jamie arches an eyebrow and Morrison turns back to face the rest of the team, folding his hands behind his back in that insufferable resting military posture.

“Some of you aren’t going to be happy to hear what I’ve got to say,” Morrison continues. “That’s fine with me. You don’t have to be happy about it. I still need you all informed and aware before these U.N. folks start grilling you for information...and believe me, you _will_ get grilled.

“Here’s how it stands: Talon has us outmatched. Not outnumbered, not outgunned, but _outmatched._ I don’t know what they have that we don’t, but they’ve been able to anticipate our every move for far too long. That’s a damn dangerous liability to have and I don’t like liabilities. If we’re going to end Talon once and for all, we need a black ops division. We need Blackwatch.”

The air seems to go out of the conference room and Jamie is pretty sure he’s the only one who doesn’t understand why. He glances down at Mei, her fingers twisted in a death grip around the wrist loop of her bag, her eyes wide and almost frightened; save for Hanzo and McCree, everyone else seems to share her anxiety.

Hanzo is as stoic as ever, but his dark eyes are on McCree, not Morrison; McCree himself has the wide brim of a black cowboy hat tipped so low that Jamie can’t see his face, let alone his reaction.

Something about that makes Jamie just a little bit nervous.

“I don’t like it. The U.N. damn sure isn’t going to like it,” Morrison says.

Jamie turns his back on McCree with reluctance.

“Blackwatch was the beginning of the end of Overwatch,” Morrison continues. “No one knows that better than I do, except maybe Jesse. My intention, however, is for the new Blackwatch division to be used _solely_ against Talon interests. It will engage in no other activities _except_ those related to Talon. All Blackwatch activity will be reported to me _in full._ I will not make the same mistakes twice.

“That being said, there will be no Blackwatch announcement. My return will be more than enough for the U.N. to cope with. I went ahead and informed all of you now so that you will be fully armed against any line of questioning. Now if anyone asks you about the possibility of Blackwatch reforming, no one will say _No, never!_ and make a liar out of me. Should you be asked that question, you are to say _It has not been discussed._

“And that is not a lie. It is not being discussed because I am not discussing it. I have exhausted my options and Talon remains a whole hop, skip and jump ahead of us. That cannot stand.

“Time is nearly up. I’m announcing Blackwatch assignments now.”

Morrison reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a miniature tablet; between his scarred features and the tablet’s greenish-blue glow, he looks eerie, almost undead.

He begins to read:

“Absent but previously informed: Genji Shimada. Ana Amari. Mako Rutledge.

Present: Lúcio Correia dos Santos. Aleksandra Zaryanova. Hanzo Shimada. Jesse McCree. Jamison Fawkes.”

Jamie’s eyes fly wide.

\- _fuck is the matter with him why would he trust you why do any of them trust you why does_ she _trust you this ain’t part of the plan -_

Beside him, Mei inhales sharply and grabs his hand, fingers clamping tight around his own.

Morrison tucks the tablet back into his pocket. “If I did not call your name, you are dismissed. If I did call your name, wait here with me.”

Jamie glances down at his left hand. Mei’s grip is so tight that he can feel her trembling, and Jamie doesn’t know what his heart is doing, doesn’t know what his _breath_ is doing. His mind is spinning so fast that nothing makes sense _,_ but when he turns his hand over in hers she laces her fingers with his with no hesitation, turning to look at him with a bright smile that belies her clutching hand.

“I’ll wait for you outside at the hovercraft,” she says, and then her hand slides out of his and she’s gone, following the others out the door and leaving Jamie with a pounding heart and the sour burn of guilt in his throat.

* * *

 

_Why can’t I breathe?_

Mei inhales as deeply as she can and lets each breath out slowly, but the weight in her chest remains...too light for true panic, too heavy for true comfort.

She turns into the first restroom she sees in the corridor, waving Hana and Lena on when they offer to wait.

“Go on, I’ll only be a second!” she says. “The restrooms on the hovercraft scare me a little, that’s all.”

Her bright smile is so false that it hurts her face, and she’s grateful when they head on without her. She lets the door swing closed and leans back against it, trying to resist the urge to claw at the high collar of her dress.

_Blackwatch._

It doesn't make sense. Jamie’s explosives are so loud and fiery, his approach so _obvious…_ a black ops division? _Blackwatch?_

_In through the nose...out through the mouth..._

She had been in Antarctica for most of Overwatch’s downward spiral and frozen when it went up in flames, but she had learned of the role Blackwatch played in creating those flames soon after being rescued.

Perhaps _too_ soon - everything immediately after her rescue is still hazy in her mind, like a half-remembered nightmare.

What she recalls of Blackwatch during its operation is mostly the danger. Blackwatch operatives were shadows, sent into situations too tense -

_Or too morally grey…_

\- for Overwatch itself. Their agents were injured more often, disappeared more often...but the public never knew. Blackwatch had the blessing and the curse of having none of Overwatch’s visibility.

_He’s my friend. I’m worried. That’s all. It’s normal to be worried. In through the nose...out through the mouth…_

She focuses on her breathing. Never mind that they are _all_ her friends, and never mind that the fear had not hit her until she heard Jamie’s name called.

_Breathe. Stop thinking. Breathe._

* * *

 

Jamie shifts in his seat, left leg bouncing under the conference room table. The tension in the room is thick enough to suffocate, and it is obvious now that he really _is_ the only one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.

As the others continue to file out Lúcio slips into the seat next to him, unsmiling and grim.

“I know you’re clueless but we’ve only got a minute. Blackwatch is more or less the reason Overwatch was disbanded,” he mumbles, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Morrison was Strike Commander of Overwatch and Reyes was Blackwatch Commander, I told you that, but Mr. McCree was under Reyes. Sort of his protégé, I think. Shit went down and the world found out that Blackwatch had been up to a whole lot of no good. Mr. McCree disappeared. Aforementioned shit proceeds to hit the fan and everything literally goes up in flames - you know that part. Everyone thought Mr. Morrison and Reyes died in the explosion. Mr. Morrison choosing McCree for this…”

“Nah, yeah, mate,” Jamie mutters. “You’re sayin’ this ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“Not by a long shot,” Lúcio agrees.

The door closes behind Reinhardt. One by one, everyone left in the room turns to look at Morrison; one by one they follow Morrison’s line of sight, until finally they are all looking at McCree, slouched in his seat, face hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

Morrison breaks the tense silence. His voice is heavy, weary, a thousand years old. “I’m sorry.”

McCree raises his head slowly, looking up at Morrison from beneath the hat’s shadow. The hair on Jamie’s arm prickles and he fights the instinct to duck for cover. He’s seen the light glint off McCree’s eyes like that too many times, usually right before people start dropping dead with gaping holes in their foreheads.

“The _hell_ you are.”

Jamie winces; from the corner of his eye he sees Lúcio do the same. He had been prepared for McCree to sound angry, but this...this is far removed from his usual tone of voice, flat and _cold,_ so bitterly cold that even Hanzo closes his eyes as McCree adds, “Get it over with.”

“I only have a little more left to say.” Morrison straightens his back and folds his hands behind himself once more. “But first I’d like to answer any questions you may have. I can see that the rest of you don’t understand why you’re here. Zarya, you first.”

“I have no experience with such work,” Zarya admits. “I do not refuse this appointment, but I am confused, yes.”

“I chose you because I needed someone who can take hits besides Mr. Rutledge. You were the best suited. Winston stands out too much and Reinhardt isn’t black ops material. I considered Hana and her MEKA…”

Lúcio stiffens next to Jamie, his clasped hands clenching tight.

“...but the MEKA is too conspicuous,” Morrison finishes, and Lúcio relaxes.

Zarya inclines her head. “Your reasons make sense. I accept.”

“Good,” Morrison replies. “Next?”

“What am I doing here?” Lúcio asks. “Like Zarya said, I’m not refusing, just...confused.”

Morrison looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “We both know that your sonic technology originally belonged to Vishkar. We both know they didn’t hand it to you voluntarily.”

Lúcio narrows his brown eyes, smirking slightly; Jamie is a little surprised to find that the effect is unnerving.

“That’s fair,” Lúcio answers.

Morrison nods. “Next?”

“My brother and I?” Hanzo asks.

“Born into a high-profile organized crime family,” Morrison replies. “That kind of knowledge and experience is invaluable, no matter how long you’ve been...estranged.”

Hanzo gives a stiff sort of bow. Morrison turns to Jamie.

“Any questions?”

“Uh, yeah, mate,” Jamie answers, unable to keep the suspicion from bleeding into his voice. “Not ta like, be _ungrateful_ or anything, but uh...what the hell _am_ I doin’ here, exactly? Folks don’t usually put _contract employees_ on a bloody _black ops_ team. Don’t seem like a real smart move.”

“You and Mr. Rutledge have proven yourselves enough. I consider the two of you to be more than regular contract employees,” Morrison says. “Aside from the fact that you know how criminals think, your creativity and expertise with traps would be an asset to any undercover operation. You obviously prefer the more high-profile kind of work, but I know what you can do. I’ve seen it firsthand _and_ on surveillance footage. You’re a hell of a lot smarter than you like for people to _think_ you are.”

Jamie feels himself nodding as if this makes sense to him.

It doesn’t.

\- _he’s fuckin’ clueless they’re all fuckin’ clueless they have no idea how can they not know howhowhow -_

That no one, even Morrison, seems to suspect him ought to fill him with glee. He tries to summon it, tries to _make_ himself excited, but all he gets is a mounting sense of self-loathing so intense that he feels as if he may be sick.

 _Forget it,_ he tells himself, chewing the inside of his lip until it hurts. _Ain’t important right now._

He is almost glad when McCree speaks up again, leaning forward in his seat, voice like dry ice. “Guess I don’t even hafta ask what I’m doin’ here, do I? An’ I ain’t got much choice ‘bout acceptin’, either...but you’d know that, wouldn’t ya, _Commander?”_

Morrison seems to flinch, closing his eyes and looking down at the ground in an effort to hide it.

“Jesse.” Hanzo’s voice is soft, barely enough to be heard, but a little of the tension seems to go out of McCree’s shoulders.

“Get on with it,” he mumbles, leaning back and slouching down again.

Morrison nods, but this time it takes him a little longer to look up. When he finally raises his head it is the Soldier that looks out at them, face like stone.

“You have all accepted your appointments. Welcome to Blackwatch. Within the next week, you will have your first assignments. You will be taking your orders from Blackwatch Commander Jesse McCree -”

_“What?”_

This time Morrison doesn’t flinch. He continues speaking over McCree’s outburst. “...and Lieutenant Blackwatch Commander Ana Amari. Dismissed.”

The word is scarcely out of Morrison’s mouth before McCree is on his feet, stalking toward him, thundering in what sounds like a furious mix of Spanish and English. Lúcio, Zarya, and Jamie exchange only the briefest of glances before they all three push back from the table, making a beeline for the door.

Zarya is just about to close it behind herself when McCree snarls, “Hanzo, _darlin’,_ would ya mind leavin’ me an’ _Commander Morrison_ alone for a minute?”

Zarya holds the door open and Hanzo exits with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose just beneath his piercing. For a moment he does not speak; the corridor is full of awkward silence, save for the fierce, muffled voices inside the conference room.

“I will wait for them,” he says at last, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall near the door. “Go on. I will not let them make us late.”

> “Run away again if you think you can’t handle it!”
> 
> _“No jugaré tu juego! Jódete, anciano!”_

Jamie and Lúcio both cringe.

“Uh, ya sure ‘bout that, mate?” Jamie asks, “Cowboy’s mad as a cut snake.”

Hanzo’s mouth twitches into a brief smile as he looks up. “I am sure, Jamison. I will intervene if need be.”

“I can intervene _now,_ if you wish,” Zarya offers, frowning at the door of the conference room. “I do not understand Spanish, but I think that McCree’s words were not very polite.”

“You can say _that_ again,” Lúcio mumbles. “Seriously, Hanzo, you sure you’re good? Mr. Morrison obviously feels bad about this, but he’s got his Super Soldier face on now. He’s not backing down.”

“I appreciate the offers,” Hanzo says, “But I think Jesse would prefer not to have an audience when he emerges. Go. Spend time with your dates. Mine will come to his senses eventually.”

Jamie, Lúcio, and Zarya head down the corridor with more than a little reluctance.

“Reyes,” Zarya says. “He is the same man as Reaper, yes?”

“I don’t know if you’d call Reaper a _man,_ exactly,” Lúcio replies. “But yeah, why?”

“McCree does not like the implication that he is like such a man,” she says. “I do not blame him for being angry, that is all.”

“Me neither, but I still think Mr. McCree can handle it.” Lúcio folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. “Mr. Morrison’s old, but he’s been doing this his whole life. I trust his judgement, you know?”

Zarya says something in reply, but Jamie doesn’t hear; all he hears are Lúcio’s words bouncing around in his mind like an errant tennis ball.

\- _trust his judgement trust his judgement trust his judgement why the fuck does he trust his judgement old man picked_ _you picked you picked the thief the liar the criminal the traitor - _

Jamie bites the inside of his lip, trying to will his mind to be silent. He doesn’t want to think like this, not here, not _now,_ doesn’t want to end up arguing inside his own head immediately before attending an event where he’s expected to act _sane._

\- _trust his judgement and yet you’re still here don’t make sense ‘course it don’t make sense he’s losin’ it puttin’ a fucked up contract criminal like you on black ops actin’ like you fuckin’ belong there you don’t belong there you don’t belong with the heroes -_

There’s blood in his mouth again but Jamie barely tastes it. He follows Zarya and Lúcio outside toward the hovercraft in a daze.

\- _trust his judgement and the old man don’t know shit he’s got no idea no clue none of ‘em do and it’s perfect it’s so fuckin’_ _perfect \- _

Jamie curls his metal hand into a fist so tight that his fingers screech slightly as they grind against one another.

_If it’s so goddamn perfect why do I feel like I’m gonna be sick?_

It is Mei that pulls him out of his own head. He can’t feel her touch on his prosthetic arm, but he can see her small hand with its red painted fingernails, resting lightly on the metal.

“Jamie! What’s the matter?” she asks, and just like that the tension fades and his mad thoughts quiet down to a hiss.

“Eh, phantom pain,” he answers - _It’s only half a lie, really_ \- offering her his arm again like Lúcio had instructed. “Comes an’ goes - ain't used ta takin’ it off this much.”

She frowns at him as she links her arm with his. “You _still_ haven't talked to Dr. Ziegler, have you?”

Jamie shrugs. “Nah. She's got more important shit ta worry about.”

Mei chooses not argue. This time.

Instead she asks, “How did the rest of the meeting go?”

“Well, I’ll be takin’ orders from a cowboy, if that tells ya anything,” he replies.

Mei sucks in a breath. “Oh. He _didn't.”_

“Oh, he did.”

“And how did that go…?” she asks.

Jamie arches an eyebrow and jerks his chin toward the door of the compound. McCree and Hanzo are coming across the yard; behind them comes Morrison, mask in hand. Just before he clicks it in into place, Mei catches the shadow of a black eye.

"'Bout like that," Jamie says.

“This must be so hard for him,” Mei murmurs, as Jamie helps her up the first steep step toward the hovercraft.

“Seems like it,” Jamie replies, following behind her. “Lúcio had ta fill me in, but he seems ta think Morrison knows what he's doin’.”

Mei bites her lip. “I hope so.”

_I really, really hope so._


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _ This world is a time bomb ticking and I think that I could stop it if you help me. _   
>  Saved - The Spill Canvas   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Jamie's foul mouth; alcohol; mild claustrophobia; Mei's dirty mind; panic attack.
> 
> **Notes** : Sorry this took awhile! New job is full time, so I'm still adjusting. I'm going to try to get on a more regular schedule here soon. As always, please let me know about any errors. For whatever reason there are sometimes extra spaces after italics...I try to catch them all, but I always seem to miss a few.

Jamie has never seen this level of security in his life...and given when he has _done_ with his life, that is saying something.

The Overwatch Open Night event is being held in a huge convention center, about an hour’s hover trip from the Overwatch compound, and almost as soon as Jamie steps off the hovercraft his skin begins to crawl.

The crowd is held back by a line of guards in riot gear, but the presence of the U.N. security delegation does nothing to ease the knot of panic forming in Jamie’s chest. He is not used to such massive crowds and he has an almost instinctive aversion toward any kind of law enforcement...particularly when they all look to be the same person, carrying the same laser weapons, wearing the same solid navy blue riot gear, the same tactical masks, with no identification save the U.N. logo embossed upon their left breast in white.

_They could be bots and I’d never fuckin’ know,_ he thinks, wishing for the weight of the RIP-Tire at his back, for his frag launcher, for _anything_ to defend himself with.

“This feels more like being escorted into a prison,” Mei murmurs. She reaches up and links her arm with his, as if it is something she has done every day of her life, and Jamie’s already-racing heart stumbles over a beat or two.

“Ya got that right,” he agrees. “Maybe it’ll be better inside.”

It isn’t.

They are escorted into a foyer where they are met with yet more security. Jamie chews the inside of his lip, frowning at the setup; one by one, the members of Overwatch begin filing through the archway of a metal detector. Further on two security guards stand facing one another, watching the line move forward through x-ray lenses.

Between Jamie, McCree, Satya, and Lena, only Lena manages to be gracious about the situation.

“Ya ain’t s’posed ta set ‘em up _backward_ ,” Jamie mutters as he steps through the arch. It emits a high-pitched _beeeeeeeep_!, the fourth in approximately as many minutes.

“Please step over here, sir,” the security guard says, gesturing off to the side where Satya, Lena, and McCree stand together.

“Don’t make a lick’a sense,” McCree agrees. His eyes remain hard as flint; he had spoken little on the flight, save for brief exchanges with Hanzo in Japanese.

The security guard standing next to them swallows audibly, staring at McCree from the corner of his eye. Jamie can’t blame him. McCree may have left his revolver behind, but he still looks ready to pop off a headshot at the slightest provocation.

“Oh, don’t make such a fuss!” Lena waves her hand. “We’ll be in and out in two shakes.”

“Ain’t the point,” Jamie says, raising his metal arm. He _barely_ resists the urge to flip off the guards. “Point _is,_ ya put the x-ray blokes _first,_ so they know ya got a bloody _bionic_ _‘_ stead of a _bomb_.”

“Where you are concerned, it is liable to be both,” Satya murmurs, deadpan, running her silky sea-green scarf through her flesh-and-blood fingers as she has been doing almost since they walked in the door. It is a nervous, repetitive motion, and Jamie does not blame her in the slightest. His chest is tight, clenched like a fist, and it is only fear of Zarya’s ire that keeps him from chewing on his neatly painted nails.

\- _too many people watchin’ too many eyes on me too much goddamn security_ -

He waves Mei on into the convention hall almost without seeing her and follows McCree into the small room off the foyer in much the same way, trying not to dwell on the sensation of being watched, but his resolve cracks somewhat when the security guard asks him to turn and put his hands against the wall.

“Oi, ya ain’t _arrestin’_ me, ya drongo,” he snarls.

To his surprise the guard shrinks away, terrified.

“Of - of course not!” he replies, and his voice actually _cracks_. “It’s j-just standard procedure, that’s all! Sir!”

McCree snorts in disdain. “Kid’s greener’n Genji’s hair. Go on, Fawkes, I’m watchin’ him.”

Jamie pulls his lips back into a deranged approximation of a grin, for no better reason than because he _can_ , because having the high ground makes him feel less like screaming. The guard flinches, and from the corner of his eye Jamie sees McCree struggling not to laugh.

“Fine,” Jamie says, still grinning like a maniac. “Fine, mate, but ya best not be coppin’ a feel unless ya buy me dinner first.”

“Yes sir! I mean _no_ , sir, no, I -”

_Christ, kid’s knees are practically knockin’ together...this security team is fuckin’ weird._

Jamie arches an eyebrow at McCree, who gives him a small nod in return, as if to say _Yep, it’s weird as hell._

“I’m fuckin’ with ya,” Jamie says after a moment, turning around as he was asked. “Just get it over with, yeah?”

“Yes sir!’

It is easily the quickest, most perfunctory pat-down Jamie has ever received in his life...and again, given what he has _done_ in his life, he has endured more than his share.

The nervous young guard is just as quick with McCree, who gives him a “friendly” slap on the shoulder as he and Jamie exit the little room. Lena, Satya, and - to Jamie’s surprise - Fareeha emerge from the room next to them, followed by a female security guard who looks just as young and intimidated as theirs.

They proceed past the x-ray-equipped guards without incident, finally entering the main convention hall behind everyone else, and just standing inside it makes Jamie feel like blowing up a wall and running for his life.

_Suits. Fuckin’ suits everywhere,_ he thinks, eyes narrowing to slits. _Every fuckin’ kinda suit._

The crowd is thick, full of people in military uniforms, traditional formal attire, long gowns, short cocktail dresses, and three-piece suits. Milling amongst them are several people in all white, carrying trays of tiny food and tiny delicate stemmed glasses of what must be champagne.

_Because what else would ya drink outta somethin’ that fuckin’ dainty, radioactive rotgut?_

Armed guards stand at intervals along the walls, stoic, impassive, and armed. Their uniforms are similar to those of the guards in riot gear outside, albeit less bulky: basic navy blue with the U.N. seal embroidered in white across the left breast, no name tags, tactical masks akin to Morrison’s. Cameras are lined up in much the same way, dotting the walls close to the ceiling, and Jamie is willing to bet his peg leg that there are even more hidden throughout the convention hall.

“I do not trust this security delegation,” Fareeha murmurs. She speaks so quietly that Jamie can scarcely hear her, but given the atmosphere, he understands why she is unwilling to speak up.

“I ain’t inclined to trust ‘em neither,” McCree mutters, “But what’s got your hackles up?”

“This is a high-profile event, attended by many high-profile people. Accommodating high expectations and high numbers requires all parts of the entry process to be accomplished with smooth efficiency. When they are not, people grow irritable.” Satya is still drawing her scarf through her fingers. “Metal detection systems are all but antiquated. For an event as prestigious as this, the use of them is suspicious on its own. Aside from that, placing metal detection prior to x-ray does not create a smooth progression through security. Thus, it is not an efficient system.”

“It is also _rude_.” Fareeha frowns. “I've been to events like this many times. I've rarely encountered metal detection systems, but even when they were present I never experienced such a mix up. Bionics are not uncommon, but there are still those who would prefer not to have attention drawn to their missing limbs - or other assistive technology,” she adds, inclining her head toward Lena.

“I never thought of it that way,” Lena murmurs. “Right, this _is_ fishy. Thanks for the heads up, Fareeha.”

“Knew that kid bein’ so damn skittish was botherin’ me for a reason,” McCree says quietly. “Ain't real professional.”

“Inform the others,” Fareeha says softly, shifting her gaze toward McCree. “Quietly. This is your area now.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” McCree grumbles, already turning his head to search out Hanzo. “Since it’s so dang crowded in here, spread the word as ya see folks. Make sure ain’t no one around ya payin’ attention. I’ll tell Morrison myself.”

Jamie nods absently. “Got it covered, mate.”

He pushes into the crowd. Beneath the silk shirt and tight black trousers his skin is crawling. It is all he can do to keep from jerking his tie away from his throat and slouching away to a corner of the room, where he can at least have the comfort of a wall at his back.

Stalking through the sea of suits seems to take an eternity. He soon stops bothering to mutter _‘Scuse me, mate,_ and has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping _Outta me way ya drongo!_ instead.

_It’d damn sure make me feel better, though,_ he thinks.  _Now where in blue fuck could she be…if I’m ‘bout ta be climbin’ the walls I can’t imagine what she’s feelin’ like._

Jamie finally emerges from the throng into the far corner of the hall. A long, elegant wooden bar has been set up at a right angle, forming a neat square, and Mei sits at the end of one side, leaning back against the wall and sipping a glass of white wine. Dr. Ziegler stands next to her, appearing even more angelic than usual in a glittering floor-length gown of gold and white; her blonde hair is twisted into a Dutch braid, woven through with rhinestones that give her the illusion of a halo.

There is nothing angelic about her expression however, and as soon as she catches sight of Jamie she moves to take his left arm, steering him to the bar stool next to Mei. The action _appears_ innocent enough, but her grip is like iron.

“Jesse has already spoken with Jack,” she says from the corner of her mouth. “He sent me to find the two of you. Jamison, is anyone listening?”

Jamie blinks up at her as he sits, taken aback by the question, but he does not stop to ask any of his own. He he casts his eyes around the area, sizing up the people nearby with accustomed skill so ingrained that he does not truly even recognize it a a skill at all.

_Nearest guard ain’t in earshot and even if he’s got a wire he ain’t gonna pick up but a word or two with her mumblin’ and whisperin’ like that and the fuckin’ suits at the bar ain’t payin’ attention ta shit and the bartender’s in another zone her eyes are glazed as hell and I don’t blame her ‘cause it’s a fuckin’ madhouse in here…_

Jamie gives a minute shake of his head. Dr. Ziegler allows herself a brief sigh of relief before she leans down between them and flashes the bartender a dazzling smile.

“Riesling, _bitte_ ,” she says.

The bartender nods as if starstruck, moving away to retrieve the requested wine. Dr. Ziegler begins to speak in a quick, soft voice.

“Listen closely. Fareeha and Satya are right to be suspicious. Something is wrong here but we do not yet know what it is. And so it seems that tonight we are _all_ Blackwatch. Jesse wants you two to stay together. Mei, you are to listen - you understand more of the languages being spoken here tonight than anyone. Keep track of what is said, of who says it. Jamison, you are to watch. Pinpoint any person that strikes you as suspicious and keep an eye on them. Do not leave one another if it can be helped.”

The bartender sets the wine glass down and Dr. Ziegler accepts it with another of those blinding smiles.

“ _Danke,_ ” she says, and moves away from the bar without so much as a backward glance.

Jamie and Mei lock eyes for a moment.

“So what’ll you be having?” the bartender asks, before either of them can speak. “Another lychee wine, and…?”

“Rusty Nail,” Jamie answers; to his surprise, Mei giggles.

“Oi, what’s so funny?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as the bartender steps away.

“I figured you for the bomb shot type, that’s all,” Mei replies, and despite the turn the evening has taken she is smirking at him, _teasing_ him, and while those little smirks of hers make his heart pound in his chest they also help him breathe a little more easily.

“Yeah, nah,” he says, flashing a rueful grin, “Very funny. I, uh, ordered an Irish Car Bomb in a pub in Ireland ‘round a year ago, before I was contracted. Ain’t gonna be forgettin’ _that_ particular history lesson any time soon.”

Mei laughs softly, accepting her new glass of wine while the bartender begins preparing Jamie’s drink.

“Crowd botherin’ ya?” Jamie asks, once the drink is in his hand and the bartender has moved away.

Her answering smile is faint. “A little,” she admits. “What about you?”

Jamie snorts derisively. “Ain’t used ta feelin’ so bloody _watched_. Keep tryin’ ta find a way out.”

“Let me know if you find one,” Mei replies, her smile melting into another impish little smirk. “We can run off together.”

Jamie manages not to trip over his words despite his heartbeat tripping over itself.

“Yeah, best not be temptin’ me, Miss Mei.” He sips his drink, barely registering the burn of the Scotch in his throat but all too conscious of the heat in Mei’s glare.

“Jamie, _why_?”

He only grins. “Just bein’ polite, is all. I got _some_ manners, ya know.”

Mei sticks out her tongue. “Sure. When it suits you.”

“Not arguin’ with that.” Jamie casts another glance around the room. “Guess we oughtta start movin’ around out there soon.”

Mei sighs. “Let me finish this glass first...maybe I’ll be resigned to it by then.”

* * *

When they finally return to their corner of the bar, they sink down onto the red leather stools as if they have both drunk their blood volume in liquor...though neither of them have touched a drink in the last hour.

Mei gives Jamie a meaningful look. “Anyone?”

His amber eyes drift away, sliding around the area so casually that for a moment Mei wonders if perhaps he had not understood.

“Nah,” he mutters at length. “Clear.”

Mei sighs in relief, leaning back against the wall and accepting the proffered glass of lychee wine from the bartender with an absent nod.

“This is a den of lions.” She has the bizarre impulse to chug the entire glass fast enough to put her uni days to shame.

Jamie seems to share the feeling, downing half his drink without so much as blinking. He scrubs his left hand down his face, nodding in agreement, eyes darting around the hall like those of a cornered animal.

The harpy inside Mei’s head screeches at her, unintelligible through a thinning veil of wine, and so Mei leans forward, reaching out with a tentative hand to touch Jamie’s shoulder.

He flinches at the contact. Mei pulls away accordingly and he gives a shaky laugh, one that sounds just a little too close to his maniacal battlefield cackle.

“Sorry, Miss,” he mumbles, bouncing his good leg on the rung of the bar stool. “Don’t mind me, yeah?”

“Is something wrong?” Mei asks. “Did you notice anything?”

“Oh, I noticed plenty,” he says, “It’s what I’m missin’.”

“What…?”

Jamie’s eyes flit toward the nearest security guard, who stands still as stone about halfway down the wall at Mei’s back. She frowns, trying not to be obvious by turning her head, but from the corner of her eye she can’t be quite certain…

“Were they closer before?” She murmurs. “Did they move?”

“Nah.” Jamie drums a metal fingertip against the glass: _Plink! Plink!_

“Then…?”

“That one’s been standin’ there since we got here. The one you’re thinkin’ of is missin’.” Jamie drains his drink. “A bunch of ‘em are missin’.”

Mei’s skin crawls. This time she cannot help but turn her head to look, obvious or not.

Jamie is right. She recalls being able to see three security guards along the wall when she first glanced down its length; now there is only one.

“They blend in,” she says softly. “Like decor.”

“I don’t like it.” _Plink! Plink!_

“Do you want to switch places?” Mei asks. She has never seen Jamie so antsy. “You said something while we were out there about wanting a wall at your back -”

He shakes his head. “Thanks, Miss, but nah. This point it’d look a bit too sketchy.”

He ticks his fingers up for another drink; Mei does not realize that she is frowning until Jamie comments on it.

“No need for the face, Miss Mei. I don’t get drunk easy.”

Mei’s cheeks flood with heat and she looks away, mortified.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, I did _not_ mean to be so rude -”

“Hey no, you’re fine, Miss!” Jamie waves his metal hand dismissively. “I ain’t just sayin’ that, I swear. I really _don’t_ get drunk easy, somethin’ ta do with the radiation - growin’ up in it fucked with my metabolism or somethin’. I eat like a damn horse an’ it just disappears, drink like a fish an’ nothin’ happens. You’d have ta ask the doc about the specifics, it’s all above me head.”

“Did she tell you that when you got here?” Mei asks, for once grateful for Jamie’s lax sense of propriety. “I know you probably put up a fight about the physical.”

Jamie laughs. “Havin’ a _real_ doc pokin’ and proddin’ me was more nerve wrackin’ than lettin’ a drunk vet cut me arm off. Didn’t have the first fuckin’ clue what she was talkin’ about an’ I still don’t. Long as she keeps me movin’ I ain’t real worried about it.”

“Vet…? As in a drunk _veterinarian?”_ Mei stares, incredulous. “Jamie, tell me you did not.”

“Didn’t have a choice, ta be honest,” he answers. “Got tagged by a mutie mulga. It was let him hack it off or die.”

Mei blinks at him, confused; Jamie cringes and covers his eyes with his left hand.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles. “That ain’t exactly proper date conversation, I reckon.”

Mei shakes her head. “No. It’s fine, Jamie, it’s just - um. What’s a mulga?”

“What’s a…? Oh!” Jamie smacks his palm against his forehead. “I ain’t thinkin’ straight, Miss Mei, sorry. Mulga’s a snake, one of the most venomous we got down under. If I’m rememberin’ right they’re mostly myotoxic, so the muties cause a fuck ton of nasty tissue damage an’ shit gets septic...”

Jamie trails off, shaking his head and taking another long sip of his drink. “And that ain’t nothin’ you wanna hear about...I don’t mean ta be so bad at this, I swear.”

“Jamie, no,” Mei leans forward again, sitting on the very edge of her stool. “I know I don’t know very much about where you came from, but I...I’d like to.”

Her face is warm and Mei cannot tell whether it is because of the wine or her own honesty. Perhaps it is both; either way the harpy in her head is blissfully silent.

Jamie gives her a rough, rueful little smile; he cannot seem to meet her eyes.

“Ya say that,” he murmurs. “I ain’t real sure ya’d look at me the same way.”

“We’ll just have to see, then,” Mei says. “Won’t we?”

Jamie finally looks at her, both his smile and his eyes softening somewhat...and then they hear the voice.

Mei cannot understand the words but she would recognize that accent anywhere. It is cleaner than Jamie’s, neater despite a slight slurring of certain words, and it comes from a man standing a few feet behind them.

The little group of men in suits gathered around the man begin to laugh. Jamie’s metal hand screeches softly against his glass as his grip tightens.

“Jamie?” A small knot of panic forms in Mei’s chest. “Jamie what’s wrong?”

He jerks his chin over his shoulder in the direction of the men in suits. His jaw is clenched tight.

Mei concentrates on their voices, doing her best to listen without staring.

“Can’t believe they accepted _Junkers_. Must be gettin’ desperate, yeah? I mean, I can’t imagine they’d be all that useful.” The man at the head of the group pauses to take a sip of his drink. “It’s not safe to go near them in the first place - everyone knows Junkers are so bloody irradiated they glow in the dark.”

Mei sucks in her breath as the identity of the man clicks in her head.

“Jamie,” she murmurs, “Jamie, that’s…”

“I know who it is,” he replies, his voice like stone.

“Well, I suppose as Prime Minister, it _is_ my duty to do something about the Outback’s trash problem.” The man sighs, an exaggerated, long-suffering sound clearly meant to garner sympathy, but Mei has none. The way the other men in suits raise their glasses to him and pat him on the back makes her skin crawl.

And Jamie…

A chill creeps up Mei’s spine as Jamie’s expression shifts into something sharp, something that is all teeth and shadows and gleaming hellfire eyes.

He takes another long sip of his drink.

“Seems ta _me_ ,” he says, raising his voice just enough to be heard, “The trash problem’s in the _government_ , not the Outback.”

Mei’s eyes widen.

The Australian Prime Minister turns around. He clutches a glass of some dark liquor on the rocks in one hand, a hand that sports several rather tacky gold rings. He is short, balding, pale and sallow and well past middle age, and Mei realizes that from his angle, all he can see of Jamie is his back and a little of his left arm.

“Excuse me?” the Minister says, glaring down his liver-spotted nose at Jamie slouched on his bar stool. “Young man, I _am_ the Australian government.”

Mei covers her mouth in surprise. It is such a pompous, authoritarian thing to say that she cannot quite believe her own ears; she finds herself eyeing Jamie with apprehension, praying that she will not have to hold him back.

His actual reaction almost makes her wish that she did.

Jamie snorts at the Minister’s words and drops his glass down onto the surface of the wooden bar with a solid _thump_. His broad mouth twists into a grin that is deeply unsettling...yet at the same time Mei finds herself _excited_ by it, her heart fluttering a little in her chest as she watches him.

He slides off his bar stool, facing to the left and drawing himself up to his full height, an imposing 6’6 that wipes the smug look off the faces of more than a few of the Prime Minister’s aides before they have even seen his face.

The Prime Minister himself soon ceases to smile altogether.

The light glints off Jamie’s battered bionic arm as he turns, and he approaches the Prime Minister of Australia with his peg leg thumping softly against the floor on every other measured step.

“Seein’ as how it was the _government_ who gave the whole bleedin’ Outback ta the Omnics _without_ consultin’ the folks who was livin’ there,” Jamie begins, his voice a dangerous drawl, “And seein’ as how it was the _government_ what decided ta let the Omnium’s corpse rot radiation inta the ground and air instead of sealin’ it off...and seein’ as how it was the _government_ that declared Central Australia ta be nothin’ but a _territory_ after the Omnium blew, and the _government_ that refused ta accept any refugees from the Outback, an’ the _government_ that refused ta provide any kinda support ta anyone affected by the explosion, and seein’ as how it was the _government_ that was fine with doomin’ hundreds and thousands of men and women and _kids_ ta live or die in a _bloody...irradiated...wasteland…_ ”

Jamie comes to a halt inches from the Minister, looming over him, no longer smiling but sneering like a black-clad demon.

“Then nah, yeah,” he says softly, “It’s the government that’s got the trash problem.”

Jamie plucks the Minister’s drink out of his bony, shaking hand and tosses it back. He swallows three fingers of liquor without so much as closing his eyes, then raises the empty glass in a sarcastic little toast.

“G’day, _mate._ ”

He drops the Minister’s glass on the bar next to his own as he walks away, back straight, head held high.

For the next few erratic beats of her heart Mei cannot seem to remember how to draw breath; when she does, it comes back to her as his name.

“Jamie,” she breathes, sliding off her bar stool and hurrying after him. “Jamie?”

Mei shoves through the crowd as best she can, but even in heels there is no seeing over the top of it. It takes nearly a quarter of an hour to find him again, and even then it is by accident: she tries to push past someone when they move abruptly into her path. Unaccustomed to her heels and thrown off balance, she fully expects to land face-first on the hard floor.

Instead she stumbles face-first into Jamie’s broad chest. He catches her around the waist with his left arm, steadies her with his right hand on her hip, and Mei finds herself pressed close against him, unable to tell if she is wobbling due to high heels or weak knees.

“Ya all right, Miss Mei?” Jamie asks, looking down at her with something near to panic flickering in his eyes. “I been lookin’ for ya everywhere, I turned around ta come back but ya weren’t there. I never shoulda never left like that...”

_Is he always this warm?_

Mei loses track of what Jamie is saying. His lean body radiates heat as if he burns with some constant fever, and she has the sudden, absurd hope that such feverish heat might be contagious -

_Stop being foolish._

The harpy is roused but weak, and so Mei does not move away. She curls her fingers into the lapels of Jamie’s coat and tries to find the thread of his words.

“...make a scene, but the bastard had it comin’,” Jamie is saying, and Mei nods her head in agreement.

“Even if he is the Prime Minister,” she says, “He has no right to talk about you or anyone else like that.”

Jamie’s face brightens but his smile is still faint, as if he can hardly believe that she agrees with him. “I’ll be holdin’ ya ta that, especially if Morrison decides ta chew me out about it later...speakin’ of, we need ta be gettin’ up there. Half the others are already sittin’ down.”

Mei is so close that she can feel his body grow tense against her own; she steps back to give him space to breathe, though she does take his left hand in hers.

“I’m not thrilled about being stared at, either,” she sighs, squeezing his hand a little. “But at least we won’t be surrounded by a huge crowd of people we don’t know.”

Jamie gives a short huff of laughter and scrubs a hand down his face. “Fair enough. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Jamie begins to push forward, guiding her through the crowd with her hand clutched in his, and Mei finds herself sighing a little, even smiling to herself at the sight of their clasped hands.

_Too much wine,_ she thinks, without really believing it. _That’s all it is. That’s all._

* * *

They manage to reach the platform without incident, though they _are_ the last two to take their seats. Mei crosses her ankles and tucks them neatly to the side, sighing in relief.

“Feel better?” she asks, as Jamie folds his wiry body down into the seat next to her.

“Much,” he replies. “What do ya think is gonna happen?”

“Hopefully nothing.” Mei laughs nervously. “None of us are exactly prepared for a confrontation...Hana! Couldn’t get away?”

Hana leans forward from the row behind them, blowing a bubble half as big as her head as she rolls her eyes. “The Korean delegation kind of cornered me. I didn’t want them to think I regretted joining, so I stayed.”

“Lúcio wouldn’t go with ya, huh?” Jamie smirks.

Hana sticks out her tongue and kicks the back of his chair; Jamie and Lúcio both laugh.

From a few seats down, Dr. Ziegler shushes them all, pointing to the man who has taken the podium - the Secretary General of the U.N., whose name Mei cannot recall.

Lúcio and Hana both cringe and sit up in their seats, shamefaced, but as soon as Dr. Ziegler looks away Jamie sticks out his tongue at her, and Mei finds herself hard pressed not to crack up entirely.

The speech is boring, as speeches tend to be. Mei zones out a little. She finds herself glancing over at Jamie through her lashes, her lips twitching in amusement at his glazed expression.

Suddenly he blinks for just a moment too long; when his eyes open again _he_ is looking at _her,_ their eyes locked together.

Mei looks away, heat flooding her cheeks; when she risks another glance Jamie meets her gaze, smirks, then crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue again.

Mei covers her mouth with her hand and just barely manages to turn a burst of laughter into a cough; by the time Dr. Ziegler looks over at them they are both staring forward, struggling to appear innocent.

Mei knows that she should stop looking at him, she _knows,_ but she can’t, and Jamie keeps making faces at her through the rest of the speech. By the time it is over Mei is trying so desperately not to smile that her entire face aches; she feels like a teenager at an assembly seated next to the class clown.

The class clown with freckles sprinkled over his cheeks and nose, with high cheekbones and a wide, expressive mouth, and gold canine teeth that flash in the fluorescent lights...the broad-shouldered, lean-muscled class clown who looks absolutely _devastating_ in all black…

_He has no idea,_ Mei thinks, applauding words she never even heard. _He honestly has no idea._

A pleasant little shiver runs up her spine and Mei bites her lip, watching Jamie applaud with his left hand against his thigh, and she has the abrupt, unbidden image of that hand coming down against _her_ thigh, or even her -

Mei tears her eyes away from Jamie and stares forward, her face on fire. She is so grateful when Morrison takes the podium that she forgets to be nervous about the upcoming reveal.

Still, she can’t help but glance at Jamie once more as they sit down. He seems to be willing to behave himself now, giving her a reassuring smile before turning his attention to Morrison.

Mei does the same, focusing on him mostly in order to keep her mind off...other things.

She watches the enlarged holos projected at angles on either side of the platform. They blink a few times, adjusting to Morrison’s image; when they stabilize, he begins.

“I am here tonight to convince you all that the world needs Overwatch,” Morrison says. “Truth is, I don’t think I need to _convince_ you of anything. You already know what’s coming. You already know what’s at stake. And you already know that you need us. What you’re afraid of is that we’ll turn out to be just as corrupt as we once were, and I don’t blame you for that. Not one bit. I couldn’t see that corruption the first time around...”

The audience murmurs softly, confused, and Mei’s nerves flood back so suddenly that she begins to tremble. When Jamie takes her hand there are no untoward thoughts; she simply clings to it, waiting.

Morrison touches something behind one ear. His red visor field dissipates, revealing more of the scar that slashes his forehead as well as his bright, intense blue eyes, one of which is blackened and swollen from McCree's fist. There are scattered gasps through the crowd and Mei notices that she is not the only one holding on to someone for support: Lena’s hand all but disappears into Zarya’s; Dr. Ziegler leans heavily on Reinhardt’s massive arm; a quick glance behind her reveals Hana and Lúcio with their arms linked, fingers crossed in their laps.

“...but I’ve paid for my mistakes…”

Mei looks forward again, watching on the holo as Morrison pulls away the lower half of his mask. The scar lengthens and widens into a brutal slash. Another bisects the left corner of his mouth from cheek to chin. The crowd lets out a collective gasp.

“...and I’ve learned my lesson.”

There is a beat of heavy silence, and then…

_SLAM._

Mei jumps; the audience begins to stir, turning toward the sound -

_SLAM. SLAM. SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM..._

Everyone on the podium leaps to their feet, Mei included, her heart hammering inside her chest; the holo image of Morrison begins to flicker, showing only flashes of his darkening expression.

_...SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM. SLAM. SLAM._

“Lockdown!” Someone from the audience screams. “Lockdown, we’re on lockdown!”

“What?” Mei turns toward Jamie, feeling as if ice water is trickling from the top of her head. “Jamie, _what is happening?!”_

His face is grim. “Like the bloke said. It’s a bloody lockdown. Doors an’ windows are all blocked over in steel and there ain’t a damn -”

“Shit _fire!”_

Jamie and Mei whirl around to see McCree leap to his feet, grimacing in pain, fighting out of his coat with his flesh-and blood arm. Hanzo helps him out of it, muttering under his breath in Japanese; together they fling the coat to the floor, revealing muscle so tense that it bulges strangely beneath McCree’s plaid shirt.

“Can’t move it.” McCree breathes through his teeth, as if trying to bite down on the pain. “Han, I can’t fuckin’ -”

Satya shrieks. Her robotic arm is attached at the shoulder and her entire left side is stiff, almost paralyzed, and Fareeha is on her knees, clutching Satya’s right hand in her own, trying to calm her despite the panicked cadence of her own voice -

“Oh no.”

Mei spins around to face Lena, dread filling the pit of her stomach. The light from her chronal accelerator is fading; the blood drains from Lena’s face along with it.

“No, no, nononono _please no!”_

Lena flickers...and disappears.

All the sounds around her begin to fade into one dull, rushing roar; Mei struggles to get enough air into her lungs, watching everyone around her as if they are a tableau in a silent horror movie.

Winston, fangs bared in a roar of anguish -

Zarya, her fists clenched in anger, eyes wide in panic, mouth twisted in fear -

Satya, staring forward with blank, distant eyes, her head in Fareeha’s lap -

Fareeha, smoothing Satya’s hair, her jaw clenched in fury -

Mei begins to tremble. It hurts to breathe, her chest is so _tight_ …

Dr. Ziegler, kneeling next to McCree, one hand on the knotted muscle above his bionic -

McCree himself, flinching away, his bionic arm cradled against his chest -

Hanzo, standing beside him, a silent, glaring sentinel -

Reinhardt, standing at the front of the platform as if he alone can defend them all from whatever horror is unfolding -

Morrison standing near him, maskless, bruised, blue eyes like chips of ice -

Lúcio and Hana, fingers laced, heads bowed together, whispering, waiting -

And all around the hall the doors and windows are covered in shields of steel, and Mei feels cold, so cold; the air in the room seems to evaporate and she collapses into her chair, clawing at the high throat of her dress, tears streaming from her eyes -

“Hey, Miss, you’re all right.”

Jamie sits down next to her and before Mei can say a word, he sweeps her hair away from the back of her neck and unhooks the closure of her dress, easing the grip of the collar around her throat.

Mei inhales like a drowning person, but when Jamie moves to give her space she reaches out and clutches his hand. She cannot speak but she shakes her head, pleading with her eyes as best she can, and she is too near to full-fledged panic for the harpy to raise so much as a peep of protest.

“Yeah,” Jamie mumbles, leaning back toward her and lacing his fingers with hers, “Yeah, all right. I got ya.”

She nods her gratitude, squeezing her eyes closed and clutching Jamie’s hand as tightly as she can. She tries to focus on his voice.

“That’s it, just focus on breathin’ - what, mate?”

His voice changes as he turns his head a little. “‘Cause mine ain’t the same. Mine’s a fuckin’ antique compared ta you an' Satya both...mate, ya best stop tryin’ ta chat, yeah?

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is closer now, softer. “You’re doin’ great, Miss Mei, just keep breathin’ slow…ah...oh, _fuck_ -”

“The holos!” A voice in the crowd shrieks. “ _Look at the holos!”_

Mei forces herself to open her eyes.

The holo-images of Morrison have disappeared.

In their place is a pale purple skull, its eye sockets dotted with triangles as if to form eyelashes; its nose is an upside-down heart.

Above it, in old-fashioned digital numbers, a timer begins to count down from 30:00.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> _I'm not close to perfect, I'm not close to sane, I'm not the one to worship and I'm not the one to blame._  
>  King of Anything - Beartooth  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Jamie's foul mouth; Jamie's unstable thought processes; mild symptoms of panic/anxiety
> 
>   **Notes** : I want to apologize for there being no update during April! I had a mysterious health issue that took awhile to get figured out. I was in a lot of pain but the nature of the pain was so vague that it took some trial and error before we figured out I'd slipped a disc in my back. I'm better now, though, and am (tentatively) hoping to have another update out this month.

Jamie sits with his left hand on Mei’s back and his right clenched into a fist.

“They still have their pulse rifles on us, don’t they?”

She speaks almost all in one breath. Her elbows are propped on her knees and she holds her head in her hands, staring down at the platform floor between her feet as she tries to keep the panic at bay.

“Yeah,” Jamie mutters. It is impossible to keep the anger out of his voice, but thankfully Mei does not seem to notice; she only nods, resuming her breathing exercises without a word.

About half the remaining contingent of U.N. security stands in a wide semicircle around the platform, pulse rifles socked to their shoulders and trained on Overwatch. Their uniforms and tactical masks render them identical, faceless; as far as Jamie is concerned they are nothing but cogs, indistinguishable from the despicable machine that commands them.

The U.N. delegates have clumped up into nervous national groups with no regard for the organs to which they belong; they are herded from place to place like sheep by the other half of security as it conducts a sweep of the hall, searching for the hidden explosive.

Lúcio and Hana sit directly behind Jamie and Mei, their heads bowed together as they whisper over their mini datapads. Both show only a tiny holo of the purple skull and the ominous countdown, which has now ticked below 25.

To Lúcio’s right is McCree, who is only getting worse. His breathing is ragged, labored, and suddenly it hitches in his throat; Jamie turns to see Hanzo helping him to shrug partway out of his shirt, baring the left half of his chest.

McCree lets out a pained gasp of laughter. “Hey Han. I’m you.”

Hanzo’s smile is slow and subtle does not quite touch the fear in his eyes. “Tch. Too hairy, cowman.”

McCree’s laugh quickly turns into a grimace, and Jamie does not blame him, does not really even understand how he can crack even the most strained of smiles.

Above the scar tissue where his bionic is integrated, the muscles of McCree’s upper arm and most of his shoulder are seized hard as stone. The veins stand out in his skin like lengths of rope.

To Hana’s left, Fareeha sits with Satya’s head in her lap, murmuring softly in a language that Jamie can’t place; Dr. Ziegler is crouched on the floor in front of them, frowning and pressing her fingers against various points on the left side of Satya’s body.

“It’s her whole side,” Fareeha says quietly. “She can’t move.”

Dr. Ziegler does not answer. Her expression is grim, and Jamie has the feeling that it is not due to McCree and Satya’s extreme muscle tension.

It’s not the muscle tension that disturbs him, either.

What disturbs him are the angry reddish streaks that have appeared on McCree and Satya’s skin, rapidly creeping up from the point of bionic integration. McCree’s have nearly reached his shoulder; Satya’s have begun to climb up her throat toward her face, and down her chest toward her heart.

Jamie feels sick.

_\- know what this is know who this is know what the fuck is happenin’ my fault said she was lookin’ inta it shoulda given it ta her my fault now she’s usin’ us for goddamn guinea pigs an’ she’s gonna blow us all ta kingdom come my fault don’t make sense none a’this shit makes any fuckin’ sense the fuck does she_ want _-_

Jamie bites the inside of his lip, sinking his teeth through scar tissue until he tastes blood, but the pain cannot cut through the chaos raging in his head. The timer seems to be counting down the seconds of his sanity as well as his life.

“Lena!”

Jamie turns at the sound of Mei’s voice.

At the center of the platform Lena wavers, her body flickering like a bad holo signal. She no longer looks petrified; instead there is a deep furrow of frustration between her brows as she tries to say as much as possible before she comes unmoored from time once again.

“It’s okay, Winston! I’m okay! I think -”

She flickers. Zarya clenches one pink-nailed fist.

“ - ‘coz I keep comin’ right back here, yeah? If you lot override the ha -”

She disappears briefly, then comes back, reaching out to grab Winston by the shoulders as if physical touch can somehow anchor her in the present.

“ - hack! It’s a hacker, has to be, the accelerator is _tryin’_ to keep me here -”

She flickers away again, and this time she does not return.

“Breathe, Miss,” Jamie murmurs, rubbing Mei’s back as she stares into the empty space Lena had occupied only moments before. “Ya heard her, she ain’t even scared, yeah?”

Mei nods. Her eyes begin to flick rapidly around the room, from one steel-blocked window to the next; Jamie reaches over with both his hands and takes her by the shoulders.

“Don’t look at ‘em, Miss Mei, best ta just keep lookin’ at the ground,” he says softly.

Mei nods, leaning forward again with her head in her hands.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I just…I can’t _breathe -”_

“Ya can. I promise ya can, I heard ya doin' it meself.” Jamie rubs between her shoulder blades, gently, slowly. “What was it ya were sayin’ ta yourself? In through th’ nose...”

“...out through the mouth,” Mei finishes, exhaling as she speaks. “Right. Right…”

She does just that, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.

“There ya go,” Jamie murmurs. “Good on ya.”

She nods, but otherwise makes no response. Jamie lets her focus.

“A hacker makes _sense_.”

He turns in time to see Hana slouch down in her seat, tucking her mini datapad into her top. She shoves her hair back from her forehead and glares at the guards as she adds, “It’s the _only_ thing that makes sense!”

“They’re just doing their jobs, Hana,” Lúcio says, but the words are forced; he himself has been eyeing the guards and their pulse rifles with mounting disgust.

“If it _is_ a hacker,” Fareeha says, “Then why aren’t you affected, Jamison?”

Jamie snorts laughter. He flexes his metal fingers and swallows past the metallic film in his mouth. “Nerve cap system.”

Fareeha frowns. “But those are obsolete.”

Her comment irritates him. It  _shouldn’t_ but it _does_ and without Mei to focus on Jamie is too tense, too tightly wound. He can’t keep the sneering sarcasm out of his voice.

“'Us Down Under are a li’l behind the rest of ya,” he drawls, “Considerin’ the Outback’s idea a’ _cuttin’ edge tech_ is slittin’ throats with scrap knives.”

“Jamie.”

Mei speaks so softly that no one else hears, and it is beyond him how _one word_ from her can shame him, one word and the barest hint of reproach in her voice -

\- _and what’s she gonna sound like when she finds out -_

Jamie bites the inside of his cheek.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Not helpin’. Sorry, Fareeha.”

She gives him a slight nod. “I take your point, don’t worry about it.”

“But Jamison, why didn’t you say something?” Dr. Ziegler sighs. “We can replace that with an integrated model in less than a week!”

She chews on one French manicured nail as she speaks, clearly frustrated by her inability to do anything for either McCree or Satya.

Jamie understands her frustration, but he also understands that he will lose his mind if she starts fussing over _him_ as well.

“Yeah, nah,” he says, managing to keep his voice light, “I’ll be keepin’ the bodgy things, thanks. Seems ta be safer at the mo’.”

“Lucky.” McCree’s smirk quickly becomes a grimace.

Before Dr. Ziegler can reply someone in the crowd lets out a high-pitched little scream; whispers and muttering voices follow, quickly mounting to a dull roar. The guards shout directions in a series of different languages, pointing this way and that, but from the platform Jamie cannot see what the commotion is about; none of them can, not even Reinhardt.

Jamie can, however, _hear_ most of what is being said, especially once the guards quell the surge of voices. In short order they herd most of the crowd into a corner of the hall, save for the Secretary General, the President of the Security Council, and the President of ECOSOC, three ancient, balding men in suits that Jamie despises immediately and without reservation.

\- _fuckin’ suits how the hell did ya end up in the middle a’ so many goddamn suits how the hell did ya end up here why are ya here ya don’t fuckin’ belong here -_

Jamie is about to tell himself to shut up out loud when the guards in front of the platform begin to break ranks. The head of the UN Security Council steps through, flanked by the Secretary General and the head of ECOSOC.

Morrison steps front and center of the platform as they approach, and for once he does not adopt his usual obnoxious resting military posture. Instead he stands with his feet planted shoulder width apart and his arms crossed over his chest, blue eyes cold and unreadable.

“Jesse - !”

Hanzo’s voice is quiet but sharp with concern; Jamie can see why. McCree is trying to stand, but he does not even make it out of his chair before the blood drains from his face.

Dr. Ziegler puts a hand on his good shoulder, pushing him gently back into his seat and toward Hanzo. She steps forward in his place, flanking Morrison at a short distance on his left. Reinhardt has done the same on the right.

Suddenly Mei takes a much deeper breath. She exhales very slowly, then sits up, reaches behind her neck, and fixes her collar.

Jamie starts to pull his hand away from her back, nervous again despite a brewing international crisis and potential imminent death. Touching her grounds him, but if her anxiety has passed there is no longer any reason to -

“Please don’t,” she whispers, catching his left hand in hers and tugging it over to her left shoulder as she laces their fingers together. “I still feel like I can’t breathe and I still want to start screaming.”

She looks up at him and her expression hardens a little as she squeezes his hand.

“But I refuse to let a bunch of crusty overgrown _bullies_ know that.”

Jamie gazes down at the stubborn set of her mouth, her furrowed brows, the tiny wrinkle of disgust creasing her nose, and those warm brown eyes that are just a little too wide, a little too restless, and a peculiar, fleeting sensation of weightlessness comes over him.

His heart skips up into his throat and he forgets how to breathe and it has nothing to do with how beautiful she is and everything to do with _her,_ with her flat refusal to show her enemies the fear she so easily admits to him.

And then gravity begins to reassert itself and Jamie is smiling at her, _really_ smiling, and it feels so foreign and strange to smile like this, when he isn’t manic or mad or scheming -

\- _always schemin’ though ain’t ya whether ya like it not filthy fuckin’ rat -_

Jamie blinks. He twists his smile into a smirk.

“Good on ya,” he whispers, and Mei smiles back before turning to look at Morrison.

The chill that creeps up Jamie’s spine when she looks away has nothing to do with the brewing showdown, but the showdown is what he focuses on nonetheless. There is too much guilt in the alternative.

The Security Suit (Jamie does not remember his name and would not use it even if he did) glares up at the platform, lip curling in disgust. Behind him the Suit General and the ECOSUIT both frown so deeply that it seems as if their jowls might fall off.

“It appears,” the Security Suit begins, addressing Morrison, “That someone has planted a bomb beneath the convention hall.”

Jamie is filled with violent revulsion as soon as the man speaks. He wonders how much longer he can take this, how long his damaged mind can actually hold up under this much social stress.

“How it arrived there is a matter that will only be addressed if the Security Council survives to address it,” the man continues, “Though needless to say I have my own suspicions.”

His narrow lip curls even more and his rheumy eyes swivel toward Jamie.

And Jamie has the sudden, dangerous urge to laugh.

Of course _._

_\- never gonna be one’a them never no matter what always gonna be the bad guy always gonna be a fuckin’ rat don’t matter what company ya keep or how they dress ya up a rat’s a rat’s a rat -_

He sinks his gold canine tooth into his tongue in a desperate effort to keep from cackling, because if he starts now he may never stop.

Because it _is_ funny, isn’t it?

Of course it is.

It's _hilarious,_ absolutely bloody fuckin’ _hysterical,_ the idea of him actually being a _part_ of something, of _anything,_ especially something like Overwatch.

Overwatch is for the good guys, the _heroes._

Of course it’s funny that Jamie is sitting up there with them.

Of _course_ it is.

Look at the stupid little rat, sitting up there like he _belongs!_

His shoulders are so tense that they ache. Blood pounds in his ears. He swallows more of it as he fights to maintain control of his own mind, because what he _wants_ to do is laugh, what he _wants_ to do is laugh and laugh until the goddamn security force opens fire and puts him down like a mad dog, a mad _rat_ -

Mei squeezes his hand.

Jamie glances down at their linked fingers, feels her body move as she breathes.

In his head he hears her mumbling, _In through the nose...out through the mouth…_

He matches his breathing with hers and finds that it is a little easier to pay attention, to be present, and he is able to pick up the thread of the Security Suit’s speech.

“...the bomb has been located, but the bomb squad division was stationed in the foyer. They do not have access to us, nor can they communicate with us,” the man says. “And so, it is with great reluctance and little hope that we must entrust the survival of the entire United Nations to... _heroes.”_

He sneers the last word, making a mockery of its definition.

Jamie glares. He takes no offense for himself - he knows what he is - but he is unnerved to find that he is offended on behalf of everyone up there _with_ him.

“Jerk.”

Mei speaks under her breath, disgust thick in her voice.

“Bloody oath,” he whispers in reply, and Mei’s shoulders quake a little as she tries not to giggle.

“Get us out of here,” the Security Suit continues, “And you, Jack Morrison, will not be tried by the International Court of Justice. The United Nations Security Council will also allow the General Assembly a symbolic vote on Overwatch’s reinstatement, the result of which will be taken into consideration when the Security Council renders its final decision on the matter.”

Jamie’s lip curls into a sneer. _In a pig’s arse it will._

He runs his metal hand through his hair to the base of his neck and looks at the floor. The Security Suit’s bullshit is so obvious that Jamie’s eyes are about to roll out of his head, but he does not want to give the Security Suit any reason to be a bigger dick that he is already.

He glances over at Mei, wondering if her temper is finally getting the better of her anxiety.

He finds that she is already looking at him.

She is, in fact, regarding him with such intensity that his chest begins to fill with leaden apprehension.

“What?” he asks under his breath. “Is it me hair? I ain’t snatchin’ at it. Miss? What…”

From the corner of his eye Jamie sees that Lúcio and Hana are also staring at him with that same sort of dawning awe.

The weight of their eyes makes him feel hounded, _hunted;_ he turns his head, ready to sneer or snarl, to snap at them or spit some insult, anything to make them stop _looking_ at him, and his voice dies in his throat.

It isn’t only Mei and Lúcio and Hana that are looking at him.

It’s _everyone._

They are _all_ looking at him, everyone on the platform, staring at him as if they have been stricken by some great revelation...everyone, that is, except for Morrison.

Morrison’s gaze is calm, confident, almost _smug_ , and it disturbs Jamie more than all the others combined.

He meets Morrison’s eyes.

There is a moment of silence in which his heart refuses to beat.

Then:

“No need for a bomb squad,” Morrison says. “We brought our own.”

The holo timer hits 20.


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> _All that I love has turned to fuel for the fire_  
>  _It's gonna burn me with its touch..._  
>  Which Side I'm On - Blind Pilot  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : For once? None, really.
> 
> **Notes** : I apologize for making y'all wait. Science is hard and I am a perfectionist and I am probably on _so_ many NSA watch lists right now but I was determined to make this as plausible as possible. I ended up miserable and frustrated with myself and hating everything I wrote for about three weeks. So if you are (for whatever reason) an expert bomb-maker, please do not correct my science because I might actually cry and rewrite the entire chapter for the seventeenth time. I tried _very hard_ on the scientific detail here and it reminded me why I basically never write sci-fi.
> 
> ********************

Jamie finds himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Jack Morrison, in front of the most powerful men in the United Nations, trying to decide who he hates more.

It isn’t that Jamie has a problem being in the spotlight. He’d just prefer to shine it on himself, thanks. Morrison, on the other hand, has _thrown_ him into it, and now he stands like a ‘roo in headlights as Morrison nods toward him.

“Our explosives expert, Jamison Fawkes,” he says, and if he doesn’t wipe that smug smile off his face Jamie is going to drive his metal fist through his perfect fucking teeth.

“Yes. Yes, the Australian Prime Minister mentioned him,” the Security Suit mutters, his wrinkled mouth contorting into a sneer. “The _Junker."_

From somewhere behind himself Jamie hears a tiny, quiet gasp, followed by a whispered Portuguese curse and a faint giggle. In the heavy beat of silence that follows Jamie begins to grin, his mind threatening to give beneath all the bullshit he has endured since he first stepped into the conference room back at the compound. His hatred sits inside his chest with all the explosive potential of a nuclear warhead, radiating a poisonous madness into his blood.

_I oughta blow it all sky high._

The visual comforts him and his grin widens to a point just shy of disturbing.

“G’day, mate,” he says, his voice full of terrifying good humor. “And that’ll be Junkrat ta _you._ ”

“Good d-day, indeed,” the Security Suit says, and his stutter does not escape Jamie’s notice.

Nor, apparently, does it escape Morrison’s; he gives Jamie a sidelong glance, his insufferable smug smile becoming a slightly less insufferable, almost conspiratory smirk.

The Security Suit adjusts his tie and smooths his coat. “The guards will escort you to the device when you are ready, Mr. Faw -”

Jamie arches an eyebrow.

“Mr., ah - Mr. Junkrat.” The Security Suit closes his eyes in disgust as soon as the words leave his mouth; he and the other two U.N. leaders turn and walk away without speaking again.

Jamie’s grin stays in place just long enough for him to turn it on the faceless guards below.

“Give us a sec,” he says, then turns his back and reaches toward Morrison.

The grin slides off his face. It is all he can do to control the strength in his metal fingers as he closes them around Morrison’s thick wrist. He drags him to a corner of the platform, ignoring the bewildered eyes of the others as best he can.

“Something the matter, Fawkes?” Morrison asks, and the false innocence on his scarred, bruised face is nearly as infuriating as the way the Security Suit had said _Junker._

“Depends, _Commander,”_ Jamie hisses, heart pounding in his chest. “Ya know this don’t work like in tha movies, right?”

“I’m aware.” Morrison’s voice is quiet, even, and utterly unshaken.

“Look, mate,” Jamie says, scrubbing his living hand down his face, “I ain’t sayin’ that I don’t know my shit. I do. That’s why I’m tellin’ ya this is a bad idea! Ya don’t just _disarm_ bombs, ya take cover an’ shoot at ‘em or toss a grenade at ‘em, let ‘em blow themselves up!”

“Yes, that would be standard procedure,” Morrison agrees. “But this is no standard situation, and you’re not quite standard yourself.”

“Oi, now what d’ya mean by _that?!”_

Morrison smiles. Jamie - yet again - wants to sock him in the teeth.

“I’ve got copies of every security holo you’ve ever been on, Fawkes,” he says. “I know what you can do.”

Jamie narrows his eyes, his mouth curling into a sneer. “What I can do is get us blown ta kingdom-fuckin’-come. Takin’ out tha U.N. _an’_ Overwatch might be tha best thing ever happened t’tha whole damn _world.”_

Morrison does not miss a beat.

“Maybe. But you would never live to know,” he says, “And neither would Mei.”

Jamie clenches his fists, glaring, struggling to keep himself under control.

“Fine,” he says through his teeth. “Take me t’tha goddamn bomb.”

* * *

 The faceless guards escort Jamie and Morrison across the convention hall toward yet another squad of guards; these step back as they approach, creating an opening.

Behind them the varnished hardwood floor has been neatly cut open, even down through the layers of subflooring, creating a sort of pit. Jamie crouches at the edge and peers down.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles up at the sight.

Jamie is no contractor; he does not build, he destroys. He has planted enough explosives in enough places, however, to understand that the floor of the convention hall was built to withstand a variety of disasters.

The surface he currently stands on is about thirty centimeters thick, made up of varnished hardwood and thin layers of Setex, soundproofing, and subflooring. About two meters down there is a base of reinforced, self-healing concrete; on a building like this it would be sixty, seventy centimeters thick.

Between the two, there is another meter of structural support (a diamond pattern of joists, braces, and struts, all made of materials too high-tech for him to pronounce), and _then_ another meter’s worth of aerogel insulation.

Of course, Jamie can only tell the structure of the flooring by peering to either side of the pit...and the pit, truth be told, is beginning to look a lot more like a crater.

Every layer of the floor has been demolished within the radius of a meter all the way around the device...including down into what _should_ be self-healing concrete. It is surrounded by broken pieces of structural material, remnants of aerogel, and odd protrusions of concrete - rubble that had rejoined itself in the wrong place.

As for the device itself…

“It’s too bloody _big,”_ Jamie mutters as he slings his legs over the edge.

“Come again?” Morrison says.

Jamie waves him off with his right hand, already too preoccupied to bother with an answer. He slides off into the crater and lands in his usual left-leaning crouch with a wince.

“See if ya get me in these fancy daks again,” he grumbles, adjusting himself a little as he straightens up. “I ain’t even dressed for a bloody bomb-disarmin’.”

He moves toward the device with care, picking over the knobs of concrete and mindful of both his peg leg and the slick boot on his existing foot. The concrete evens out the closer he gets and he is able to circle around and observe the device with relative ease.

He doesn’t like what he sees.

It’s just too goddamn _big_ for what it’s supposed to be.

_Guess it don’t_ have _ta be any size, ain’t like there’s rules ta blowin’ shit up._

True as that may be, he still can’t wrap his head around why anyone would bother to plant a time bomb of this size; the biggest one he had ever planted _anywhere_ had been small enough to carry on his back like the RIP-Tire, and the biggest _time_ bomb he had ever built could fit into a rucksack. Something this size…

_Pain in in the arse ta transport. Damn thing’s gotta be two meters long, sixty-seventy centimeters wide an’ deep. Fuck knows how much it weighs. An’ whoever planted it had ta do a lotta work ta get a lot a real strong shit outta the way beforehand._

He crouches down next to the timer. It is an older model datapad, lying flat beside the module and projecting a wavery, unclear holo of the countdown - 14 minutes and 42 seconds.

_Least_ that’s _fairly standard...but where’s the goddamn wirin’?_

Jamie stands up again and reaches toward the module with his left hand. With more care than most of Overwatch would think him capable of, he places his fingertips on the metal surface.

A frown etches itself into his face as he runs his fingers over the the module. It is cool to the touch, but that means nothing. What disturbs him is that the surface is uneven, covered in dings and scratches, and even more faded than he had first realized; there are remnants of black and blue paint clinging to the metal, and he can make out the shape of a white #7 against the bleached yellow.

_Whatever tha hell’s in there, it’s either old or it’s been shook up or both. Meanin’ I best treat it like it’s bloody unstable. But what the hell_ is _it? I need a way ta -_

“Shit.”

Jamie turns and looks up at Morrison. He is crouched at the edge of the pit, squinting down at the module.

“Ya recognize this thing?” Jamie asks. “‘Cause that might actually make ya useful.”

“I do,” Morrison admits. “Though I won’t be any help with it.”

“‘Course not,” Jamie mutters, turning his attention back to the module. “Then bug -”

“But I know who will.”

Jamie glances up again just as Morrison disappears past his line of sight.

“Oi, be quick about it, mate!”

As he waits Jamie kneels down, settles the fingers of his right hand on the concrete beneath the curve of the module, and pushes.

_Please be underneath the damn thing._

His fingers punch through and Jamie scoops away as big a handful of the material as he can, as far underneath the module as he can, hoping to find that the explosive mechanism has been planted beneath it somehow.

All he sees is concrete - which is quickly beginning to rearrange itself, trying to repair the damage.

He pushes the crumbled material back into the hole; it clings to itself, magnet-like, and seals up the opening as Jamie rises back to his foot, tugging the clinging dress pants away from his crotch in absent irritation.

_Then where…?_

He leans down over the module, running his fingers over every centimeter of its exposed surface...and then he sees it.

_Bugger me._

Near the top of the module Jamie can make out a faint, square outline of damage that is too neat, too uniform to fit in with the rest of the wear and tear.

_It’s a bloody seam, a nanowelded seam, tha goddamn explosive is_ inside -

_“Tā mā de!”_

Jamie jerks his head upward, startled. “Miss Mei…?”

Mei kneels at the edge of the crater, pale and wide-eyed as if she has seen a ghost. Morrison stands grim and stone-faced behind her.

“Ya recognize this thing, Miss?” Jamie asks.

Mei seems not to hear him.

“Why,” she murmurs, shifting position and sliding her legs over the edge. “Why would they...they wouldn’t…”

She pushes herself off.

Heedless of the debris, Jamie darts forward and snatches her out of the air with his right arm, pulling her close just before her high wedge heels hit the broken concrete.

Mei blinks down at him, and time bomb or no time bomb Jamie’s heart skips a beat or two in his chest.

She is so very, _very_ close.

“Um.” A band of pink appears across her nose. “Th-thank you. That...wasn’t very smart of me.”

Jamie smiles up at her. “No worries, Miss. Ain’t easy ta stick the superhero landin’ down here. ‘Specially in heels, yeah?”

Her red mouth draws into a pout. “I’m sure _you_ did it fine.”

Jamie snorts laughter as he lets her slide to her feet.

“Think ya need two legs an’ a clean record ta qualify as a superhero,” he says. “D’ya recognize this thing, Miss Mei?”

“I...let me see.” She turns and begins to carefully pick her way over the debris toward the module; Jamie follows with his right hand hovering behind her back, ready to catch her if she loses her footing.

Once she reaches the relatively even ground around the the module she stops. Jamie waits for her to say something, or perhaps move closer, but Mei does neither; she stares in silence for so long that Jamie opens his mouth to repeat the question.

Before he can speak she looks up at him...though she does not appear to _see_ him at all.

“It’s a solar fuel module.” Her voice is just as far away as the look in her eyes. “It came...came from the Ecopoint in Antarctica.”

Jamie arches an eyebrow. “So...ya mean there ain’t nothin’ in it?”

Mei blinks. She seems to come back to herself a little as she looks up into Jamie’s eyes, but in hers he sees only panic.

She laughs in pure, nervous terror.

“I wish,” she answers, fisting her shaking hands into the fabric of her dress. “This is one of the replacement modules. We weren’t able to get to it, the storm was so bad and it lasted for so long, but something is...something is definitely in there. Our solar array, it worked in two ways, it created the solar fuel _and_ utilized it for power, we still had full backup modules just in case but w-we couldn’t get to th-them - but the _fuel,_ the way the fuel was made, the process...it w-was a homogeneous process...”

“Right, meanin’ what, exactly?” Jamie runs his living hand into his hair, snatching at the roots, determined not to look down at the timer.

“It’s...it means, um...th-the catalysts, they’re not compartmentalized, and...”

Mei shakes her head, then squeezes her eyes closed and takes a deep breath.

“It _means,”_ she says, speaking more slowly, “That the reaction used to create the fuel resulted in hydrogen and oxygen being produced and stored in the same compartment.”

Jamie freezes. Ice water seems to be trickling down from the top of his head, leaving cold fear and prickling skin in its wake.

He may not have so much as a GED to his name, but he _does_ know his chemistry - the explosive kind, at least - and hydrogen + oxygen + _a goddamn bomb_ is a recipe for one  _hell_ of an explosion.

_Keep it t’gether, ya dipstick._

Jamie exhales slowly and swallows hard, clearing his throat before he attempts to speak.

“Right,” he says, his voice conveying far more confidence than he actually feels. “Right, so explain ta me how this shit worked, Miss. Quick as ya can, but don’t leave nothin’ out.”

“Okay.” She nods her head and looks back down at the module, brows furrowing down above her nose in thought...or perhaps in anger. Jamie cannot tell.

There is a beat of tense silence, and then Mei begins to speak.

“The solar fuel we used on the Ecopoint was created by artificial photosynthesis - capturing the energy from sunlight in the chemical bonds of a fuel, so it could be stored and used when there _wasn’t_ any sunlight.” Her voice is clear and flat, almost as if she is reading from a textbook. “The process of artificial photosynthesis that we used was called photocatalytic water splitting, which used natural light and a catalyst - photocatalysis - to separate water into hydrogen and oxygen. We used _homogeneous_ photocatalysis, meaning that all the components of the reaction were present in the same compartment, resulting in oxygen and hydrogen being produced and stored in that same compartment.”

She looks up at Jamie and releases a shaky breath. “Please tell me that makes sense?”

“I got ya, Miss, thanks heaps,” he says, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I just got one question - if hydrogen an’ oxygen are in tha same compartment, why didn’t tha bloody thing explode when tha module in Antarctica was damaged?”

“I think...I _think_ it was because the damage was gradual,” Mei answers. “I don’t have any proof, but my guess is that a slow, gradual intensification of damage might cause a similarly slow, gradual leak, without destabilizing the environment of the hydrogen and oxygen inside the module. I think that by the time the module actually broke open, enough had leaked out that it was no longer dangerous...but this…”

“This thing’s already been fucked with, one way or another,” Jamie says. “So tell me what it looks like on tha inside.”

Mei closes her eyes again, as if trying to visualize.

“The storage compartment inside is smaller than the actual module. By a lot,” Mei explains. “It was surrounded by some kind of material as insulation from the cold. Aerogel, maybe. I can’t remember but it was...I can’t remember how deep it was, I can’t -”

“Close as ya can get, Miss, pretty please,” Jamie says, in the calmest voice he can muster.

Mei shakes her head, opening her eyes and looking up at Jamie with a pleading expression. “F-fifteen...f-fifteen to twenty centimeters of insulation, all around the inner compartment, but Jamie, I don’t know for _sure!”_

“S’fine, Miss Mei.” Jamie turns and stares down at the module.

_No point tellin’ her ta get clear. If this thing really is full’a hydrogen an’ oxygen an’ it goes off it’s takin’ everybody in tha bloody buildin’ with it. Least this close we ain’t gonna feel nothin’._

He narrows his eyes as he relocates the point where it has been tampered with: the seam close to the top, so neat as to be invisible.

_If it’s wired inta that inside compartment somehow…or if tha explosive charge is somethin’ sensitive enough..._

Jamie shrugs out of his coat. He turns and hands it to Mei with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Jamie?” She takes the suit jacket, looking up at him, eyes full of nervous suspicion. She catches him by his metal wrist before he can turn away. “Jamie, _what are you doing?"_

He pulls away just enough to catch her hand, squeezes it gently, and lets go.

_Oughta kiss her,_ he thinks absently, bending down next to the module. _Oughta kiss her ‘fore I go an’ do somethin’ this bloody stupid, but…_

He glances down at the timer.

Six minutes, twenty-nine seconds.

Jamie pulls his right arm back and closes his eyes. His heart pounds in his ears.

Mei cries his name at the same time he drives his metal fist through the seam.

There is a beat of breathless silence, and then...

...nothing happens.

Jamie exhales into a shaky laugh and opens his eyes. He turns and glances up at Mei, his grin somewhat sheepish.

“See? S’fine.”

Mei stares down at him, wide eyed, clutching the high collar of her dress, her expression vacillating between fear and fury. She swallows hard.

“Jamison Fawkes," she says through her teeth, voice trembling, “Don’t you ever, _ever_ scare me like that again.”

“Do my best, Miss,” Jamie answers, and begins to peel back the outer module with his right hand.

Whatever the insulating material had been, it is gone now. There is only a plain black box which - presumably - contains the explosive charge and detonator. The container has been attached to the inner module...but only _attached_ to it. There are no wires disappearing into the inner module, and that makes Jamie breathe just a little bit easier.

He reaches in with his right hand and slowly begins to pry away the top of the container. It comes up with ease. He sets it down outside the module and leans back in, peering down into the opened chamber.

He realizes two things fairly quickly.

One: Whoever put this bomb together knows jack shit about making bombs.

Two: He has no idea whether that information makes him feel better or worse.

_Fucker’s rigged up ta_ look _complicated, that’s for sure._

Inside the chamber is a maze of nanocircuit boards and a tangle of delicate wires all coated in the same color.

Jamie begins to scowl. The nanocircuits and most of the wires are a decoy.

_Don’t take any a’this shit ta connect with a timer._

He tears them out with his right hand and the timer disappears.

“Oi, don’t be celebratin’ just yet,” he calls over his shoulder, as a gasp runs through the crowd above. “Somebody best be keepin’ time for me just in case.”

“I’ve got it,” Mei says softly. “Go ahead, Jamie.”

Jamie barely hears her. He is almost annoyed - behind the decoy parts is a child’s play kind of self-contained timb bomb setup. He has built more sophisticated shit in five minutes under a hail of bullets.

_Still, if this shit went off…_

He swallows his annoyance.

_Focus._

The bomb may be simple, but it seems as if it may also be dirty. There is a suspicious canister of liquid affixed to the floor of the container, and Jamie is almost certain that it is some sort of chemical or biological agent; his mouth curls into a sneer and he swears under his breath, viciously enough to make Mei gasp.

“Sorry, Miss.” He takes a deep breath to still his shaking hands, then reaches in and removes the canister. It comes away with ease.

“Oi, one a’you lot,” he snaps, rising to his feet and glaring up at the circle of guards around the edge of the crater. “Get this shit outta here.”

The faceless guards glance at one another; one drops to their knees and then their stomach, reaching down to take it.

Jamie climbs up one of the broken joists and puts the canister in the guards’ hand before dropping back into a crouch.

“Don’t fuckin’ break it,” he growls, “No idea what’s in it an’ I don’t think nobody wants ta find out.”

He kneels back down next to the module and reaches into the container once again.

The main explosive charge is RDX; Jamie would recognize those cakey white lumps anywhere. There are four of them, stuck to each wall of the container and fitted with EFI fuses. He follows those, expecting to find a battery of some sort; it is _usually_ a battery, in any case, but...

_That ain’t a battery._

Not exactly.

It's a photovoltaic cell cannibalized from a solar array.

Jamie frowns, brows scrunching down over his nose.

_Who tha fuck sets up a bomb with a photovoltaic cell? Ain’t no way for bright enough light ta get...ta get...in..._

Jamie’s eyes grow wide.

He grabs a handful of the nanocircuit boards and wires that he had torn out earlier and begins to sift through them as quickly as his shaking hands will allow. There are four of them; three are wired up only to one another,  but the fourth comes loose from the tangle. The wires protruding from beneath it are stripped at the ends.

Bewildered, he peers down into the container. There is a small, peeled-up flap of adhesive next to the cell; when he rubs the ends of the wire between his fingers he can still feel the sticky residue.

_What...tha blue fuck…_

He flips over the circuit board. Underneath it he finds a bizarre mechanism, consisting of a communication device the size of his pinky nail and something not unlike the lens of a datapad camera, capable of emitting a brilliant flash of light relative to its size.

Jamie peels the communication device up and stares at it, then turns and looks down at the now-blank datapad; he looks from that to the lens, and finally down at the photovoltaic cell.

He repeats this several times, utterly torn.

Half of him wants to turn up his nose at such a complex setup; why would anyone bother figuring out how to rig up such a complicated time bomb in the first place, when there are _hundreds_ of more surefire options available?

The other half of him, however…

“Hooley dooley,” he mumbles, “How come I never thought’a that…?”

“Jamie?” Mei touches his shoulder. “Everything okay? The Head of Security…”

Jamie is barely listening.

“Nah, yeah, she’ll be right,” he says absently. “One sec.”

He sets the circuit board to the side and reaches back down into the container, mind racing, memorizing the layout as he dismantles each part of it.

_Can’t fuckin’ believe this’d work but why would it_ not _work?_

He disengages the ends of the fuses from the photovoltaic cell.

_Light hits cell, cell makes a spark, spark rides tha fuse..._

He removes the fuses from the lumps of RDX.

_...an’ it all goes boom._

He pulls out the cell and gets to his feet, bouncing it in the palm of his hand, thinking, thinking...

“Fawkes? How’s it coming down there?”

Jamie shakes himself out of his reverie and looks up. Morrison stands next to the Security Suit, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised; the Security Suit is frowning, still looking at Jamie with thinly veiled disgust.

Jamie flashes them a wicked grin. “Piece a’piss, mate.”

The Security Suit sneers. “In _English?”_

Jamie is in too good a mood for even the snottiest of authoritarians to ruin it.

“Sorry, mate,” he says cheerfully. “What I _meant_ ta say was ya owe what life ya got left ta a filthy no-good Junker. That better?”

The Security Suit sniffs, turns on his heel, and walks away.

Morrison’s mouth twitches as he tries to hide a grin.

“Bomb disarmed!” he barks, turning around and walking past the faceless guards. “Dr. Ziegler, how are they doing?”

“C’mon, Miss,” Jamie says as he turns to look at Mei. “Let’s figure out how ta get outta -”

She does not appear to notice him and Jamie stops talking with the uneasy sense that he is seeing something he shouldn’t.

Mei has barely moved except to place her fingers on the surface of the module. She stands beside it with her head bowed. The shadow of her bangs obscures most of her expression save for the way she worries her lower lip with her teeth. The rise and fall of her chest is quick, erratic; her shoulders tremble and she clutches his suit coat tightly, as if trying to tense herself against the shaking.

Jamie pockets the photovoltaic cell and picks his way over the debris once more. He is at a loss for words - _proper_ ones, in any case - and so he stands quietly at her side, waiting for her to indicate what she needs.

There is a high-pitched _beep!_ followed by the pneumatic _hiss_ of steel security panels disengaging and a dull _thud_ as they slide back into place. A joyous cacophony sweeps through the hall above them, in all languages, all accents, and still Mei does not speak, and still Jamie waits.

At length she curls her hand into a fist, pressing it against the surface of the module as if she plans to punch it open just as Jamie had done earlier. Her arm grows tense.

“What do they _want?”_ she asks, speaking through her teeth. “They did this for a reason, so _what do they want?”_

Jamie’s chest tightens and he looks at the ground.  “Wish I knew, Miss.”

“So do I.” Mei straightens her shoulders and tosses her bangs out of her eyes, glaring down at the disarmed bomb inside the module so intensely that Jamie wonders if her gaze alone might not be enough to set off the RDX. “And I _will_ find out.”

A bolt of fear flashes through him. He opens his mouth to ask how.

“Jamie! Mei!”

They both look up to see Lena, the light of her chronal accelerator holding steady. She stands at the edge of the crater with the rest of Overwatch, McCree and Satya included. Both look pale and drained, and they lean heavily against Hanzo and Fareeha, but their smiles are almost as broad and brilliant as Lena’s.

“Come on up, yeah?” Lena says brightly. “Everyone wants to see who saved the day!”

Mei looks up at Jamie; he looks down at her. They both look up at Lena, standing almost two and a half meters above their heads, and then back down at one another.

“I didn’t think about climbing _out,”_ Mei says. “I barely thought about jumping _in.”_

Jamie can’t hold back a lopsided grin. “Could use that blaster a’yours right about now, yeah?”

“Or one of your concussion mines.” Mei looks back up at Lena and the crowd gathering around the edges of the crater. “I almost think I’d rather stay down here.”

Jamie eyes the crowd as well, in blatant distaste. “Bloody oath.”

* * *

 In the end Winston ends up swinging down into the pit and carrying Mei out on his back; Jamie climbs high enough on his own that Reinhardt is able to reach down and pull him out, and it is Reinhardt who plants himself firmly between the two of them and the swarm of journalists that have invaded the convention hall. He remains behind them as they exit the hall as well, so that no one in the crowd can get so much as a blurry datapad picture of them.

“Ta, mate.” Jamie sighs in relief as he buckles himself into his hovercraft seat next to Mei. “I doubt any a’ya want _me_ talkin’ t’a buncha journos.”

Reinhardt shrugs his massive shoulders. “The both of you were under much stress. No need for more. And no need for the world to know more than we wish. Not right now. Mei? Are you well?”

Jamie turns to look at Mei, seated next to him with his suit coat draped over her shoulders. She pulls it tighter around herself and forces a smile, looking up only to nod at Reinhardt; she does not look at Jamie.

Not for the entire trip back to the compound.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _  
>  I'm scared to get close and I hate being alone,  
>  _   
>  _  
>  I long for that feeling to not feel at all...  
>  _   
>  **Can You Feel My Heart - Bring Me The Horizon**   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Blood, illness, injury.
> 
>  **Notes** : As if I wasn't already on enough NSA watchlists for the research on the bomb chapter, I had to go and write a disease chapter! If you're a professional biologist or disease expert or whatever, I apologize and ask your forgiveness. Also, Aly, I apologize in advance...

# 1.

“FAILURE,” a pleasant female voice announces. “SYSTEM AT 59%.”

Mei blinks and rubs her eyes, waiting for the world to bleed in around her...and as it does her breath begins to lock in her throat.

“No,” she murmurs, “No, _no._ ”

She knows that it’s a dream because in her dreams she wakes up before their cryopods fail. In her dreams she can still save them.

She never manages to do it.

Knowing that it’s a dream doesn’t help.

“FAILURE,” the AI says, “SYSTEM AT 58%.”

It’s going too fast. It _always_ goes too fast in her dreams, but again - knowing doesn’t help. Knowing doesn’t lessen the static-scribble panic roiling in her chest.

Mei spins in her chair, knowing what she’s going to see and needing to see it anyway, needing to see all of them, Opara and Torres and Arrhenius, Adams and MacReady and the flashing red lights above their pods...

...but they aren’t there.

“What?” Mei breathes, her voice trembling. “No, no...no no no no no…!”

She hits her knees in front of the single crypod and stares up at Jamie, locked inside with frost in his hair instead of embers. He lies there, expressionless and cold and unmoving, all the hectic life draining out of him as the red warning light flashes above his head.

“FAILURE,” declares the AI, ever helpful. “SYSTEM AT 57%.”

“Jamie.” She backs away from his cryopod, struggling to draw breath. “No...I - I’ve got to…”

And then she’s at the desk, just like before, just like always, staring at the display in front of her and desperately trying to find a way to stop the system failure, stop it or even just slow it down, but this isn’t her area, it was never her area but she has to _try,_ try to figure it out, try to save them but she can never save them, it’s just a _dream_ nothing but a dream and it's all in her head but that doesn't matter because in her head it is dark and cold and she’s alone except for Jamie and the flashing red light and the smooth, pleasant voice that reminds her that the _SYSTEM_ is in _FAILURE,_ the _SYSTEM_ is _AT 56%_ and oh, by the way, in case you didn’t know, just so you don’t forget, you are a _FAILURE,_ Mei, you are a _FAILURE_ and the _SYSTEM_ is _AT 55%_....

“Come on,” Mei mumbles, dashing tears away from her eyes as she tries to focus on the screen in front of her. “Come on, _please,_ just show me what’s wrong, show me how to fix it!”

The screen is a gleaming, nonsense dream-jumble; code she does not understand, chemical formulas and technical reports that scroll by in a blur of their own accord. She still she tries to read, tries to understand, but all she can see amidst the chaos are accusations:

> _Unable to initiate_ **HE IS DYING** _awakening sequence. See error_ **YOU CAN’T SAVE HIM** _log to resolve: LN _2__   **HE WILL DIE** _85% and falling; unable to detect LHe_ **JUST LIKE THEM** _pressure; vacuum integrity_ **WHY ARE YOU ALIVE** _compromised. Unable to detect C_ _2_ _H_ _6_ _O_ _2_ **YOU SHOULD BE DEAD** _and C_ _3_ _H_ _8_ _O_ _3_ _. Likelihood of successful_ **JUST LIKE THEM** _awakening 40% and falling..._

_“Stop! Stop it and show me!”_ Mei cries in Chinese, _“Show me how to save him, damn it!”_

* * *

 

# 2.

She wakes with a jolt as the hovercraft lands, breathing in quick, painful little gasps. Her eyes shift through the dimly lit cabin. She isn't sure that she is even awake and half expects the eerie blue glow of the cryo-chamber to bleed back in at any moment.

“Most everyone’s sleepin'.”

Jamie.

Mei turns and looks up at him, at his brilliant amber eyes and arched brows, his broad mouth quirked in confusion, his long freckled nose, and he is alive, _alive -_

_For now._

“All right, Miss Mei?”

_I thought I was._

“Fine. Weird dreams,” she mumbles. “Just...give me a second.”

Jamie nods his head. Light floods the cabin and Mei looks down at the floor between her heels, clutching Jamie’s coat tight around her shoulders as she tries to pay attention to her breathing.

It was the module.

She had done the best she could not to show it, but seeing that solar fuel module lying under the floor of the convention hall had shaken her down to her soul, the way nothing has since she realized she had lost nine years of her life...or _not_ lost, as the case may be, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

She took a nine-year nap but her colleagues, her _friends_...they’ll never wake up. What right does she have to be happy, to move on with her life when they didn’t get the chance and never will?

_Why me?_

She tightens her fingers into the fabric of Jamie’s jacket, haunted by the beat of her own heart.

_Why did they die while I survived?_

She doesn’t know, had been too preoccupied with _continuing_ to survive that she had never once questioned why, never once tried to determine what caused their pods to malfunction while hers did not.

The data had seemed so important then - nine years of it, plus what they had already gathered before that! There was so much of it that it had made her head spin, _too_ much of it! Even with access to _dozens_ of high-capacity flash drives she hadn’t been able to bring everything with her! She had to pick and choose, had to _prioritize_ , taking only the most important information, only what she thought she would be able to use, what the _world_ would be able to use. During those long lonely weeks that single goal had consumed her: getting out of Antarctica and bringing their work to the world.

 _Just like me,_ she thinks, _Just like me to think about the data and the research before I ever think about anyone else, let alone myself._

She succeeded. She rejoined Overwatch. She worked with the data she brought out of Antarctica, she published papers, she saved lives, and three months after she was picked up from a remote Antarctic outpost the nightmares began and nearly two years after that they haven’t stopped.

For all she has learned and all the lives she has saved she still does not know why they died, and she still does not know why she lived, and they are still _there,_ their frozen corpses are still buried under snow and ice, so what right does she have to the warmth of Jamie’s eyes?

_None._

Mei tenses her shoulders so that Jamie will not see her shaking. One by one the others begin to stir, and she watches through her lashes as they file off the hovercraft, trying to occupy her mind.

With Hanzo’s help McCree gets to his feet. He moves with the dull, dazed absence of a man who has lost a great deal of blood. His bionic left arm is slung around Hanzo’s shoulders; Hanzo’s arm is around his waist. Neither of them speak.

Satya and Fareeha follow after them. Fareeha supports Satya much like Hanzo supports McCree, but Satya’s movements are somewhat stiff, almost mechanical, as if she understands that she needs help but can barely endure being touched.

Angela hurries along behind them with her golden high heels dangling from one hand.

“Straight to the medbay,” she says softly. “All four of you, _verstanden?”_

“I will come with you,” Winston says, adjusting his glasses. “I think you may need help.”

 _“Danke._ I think you are right.”

McCree and Satya both manage to climb down with help from Hanzo and Fareeha. Angela hikes up her skirt and jumps. Winston swings down after her.

Zarya, Lúcio, and Hana move clustered around Lena like they are afraid she might disappear again if she gets too far from them. Their whispered conversation is punctuated by sudden bouts of nervous laughter, as if none of them are quite sure how to deal with everything that has transpired.

When they pause in front of her Mei braces herself to put on a brave face, but before she has even lifted her head she catches Jamie’s arm moving from the corner of her eye, waving them on.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You can go on ahead, Jamie. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“Don’t mind,” he replies. “Ain’t in a hurry t’talk ta nobody, meself.”

The entryway to the cockpit irises closed behind Morrison. His mask is back in place, hiding scars and bruises as well as his expression, rendering his face as blank and unnerving as those of the U.N. guards. He hesitates as well, then walks on even before Jamie can lift his hand, his back ramrod-straight.

“Fuckin’ Soldier,” Jamie mutters. His voice is so thick with disgust that Mei decides it might be better not to reply.

Reinhardt comes last, his massive shoulders hunched forward; it is the only way he can fit through the exit. Mei can hear he and Morrison speaking in low voices outside. A moment later he pokes his head back in and extends a hand toward them both.

“Come,” he says softly. “I will help you both down before I lock this up.”

“Think I can manage, mate.” Jamie stretches his arms high above his head as he stands up. There is a grin plastered across his face that does not quite reach his eyes and his voice is just a little too chipper. “It’s her an’ them heels what needs help -”

“You are dead on your feet, Fawkes,” Reinhardt replies, gentle but implacable. “You _both_ are.”

Mei glances up at Jamie. He is always so full of manic energy that she wonders how she didn’t see the difference. Perhaps the nightmare had been too close for her to notice, but Reinhardt is right. Jamie’s amber eyes are underscored in deep, bruiselike shadows - too deep for just a little smudged eyeliner - and his movements lack the _sudden_ quality that she is so used to. When he scowls and threads his left hand through his hair Mei realizes that he is shaking.

“ _Foot_ , actually,” he grumbles, but he makes no further protest. “Go on, Miss Mei. Right behind ya.”

Mei goes. Reinhardt lifts her up and sets her on the ground outside with ease, then turns back to help Jamie swing himself down as well. Even with assistance he still loses his balance somewhat, listing off to the left a little more than usual. Reinhardt steadies him.

“Ta, mate,” Jamie mumbles. “Guess ya were right. I’m knackered.”

“Go. Rest yourselves.” Reinhardt nods toward the compound, then turns around to drag the heavy hovercraft door closed. “I have a feeling we will _all_ need our strength, in the days to come.”

“You an’ me both,” Jamie mutters, so low under his breath that Mei wonders if she is even meant to hear. “Night, Rein.”

“Goodnight, Reinhardt,” she adds.

_“Gute Nacht meine Freunde.”_

* * *

 

# 3.

They walk alongside one another in silence.

Mei moves as if in a trance, clutching Jamie’s coat tight around herself while she still can. He knows something is wrong; he knows but he doesn’t speak, and Mei almost wishes he would, wishes he would ask so that maybe, _maybe_ it will all spill out and maybe he will understand what she has to do, why she _can’t_ even though she wants to.

_You knew this would happen._

It’s that voice again, that voice inside her head...but it isn’t just that, is it? It never has been just a voice in her head because it is _her,_ the clinical, detached part of her that is cold as Antarctica, _colder,_ as if the bitter desolation of that place had sunk into the fiber of her being, creating a cold and impassive emotional gatekeeper.

_You knew this would happen and you lied to yourself._

She had known it would happen, yes; Jamie just made it so easy to forget. He thawed something in her that ought to have remained frozen, like _she_ ought to have remained frozen, and the scribble in her chest expands a little, filling her with fuzzy pins-and-needles panic, because oh God help her why _hadn’t_ she stayed frozen? Why hadn’t she died?

_Get ahold of yourself. Focus on what matters._

What matters, yes. What _matters_ is that they are still there, still in Antarctica, dead and frozen under the snow and the ice. What _matters_ is that someone had _gone there_ , to what had once been an Ecopoint and is now a tomb. What _matters_ is that someone had gone there and stolen one of the fuel cells meant to keep them alive and turned it into an instrument of death.

What _matters_ is that someone has robbed their graves - _desecrated_ them, as far as Mei is concerned - and she grits her teeth at the thought, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of Jamie’s jacket.

“Ya gonna be all right, Miss Mei?”

Mei blinks and lifts her head.

Jamie has walked her all the way to her door and she hasn’t even thought of what to say to him yet, hasn’t figured out how to tell him that she _can’t -_

_You don’t have to tell him anything. Give the coat back. Go in your room and shut the door._

It would be easier. Almost. Easier to do that, easier to just be _cold,_ because if she gives no explanation then he can’t understand, won’t even _want_ to understand. He’ll hate her, hate her like she hated him. It was so much _easier_  when she hated him, when she didn’t understand, and it would be easy for him too. She knows it would.

_Shut the door. Shut him out._

“Listen, Miss,” Jamie begins, and Mei looks up at him through her lashes to find that his expression is nearly unreadable - like a mask. That blank neutrality is unnerving on a face like his, a face with such elastic, emphatic features.

_He knows. He knows, but how?_

_It doesn’t matter,_ the gatekeeper responds. _Shut the door. Shut him out._

“I know t’night ain’t exactly been fun,” Jamie continues. “An’ I guess I know seein’ that module thing rigged up ta blow us all ta kingdom come probably shook ya up pretty good. So, uh - well, I guess what I’m sayin’ is I...I want ya t’know I ain’t like, expectin’ nothin’, yeah?”

_Shut. Him. Out._

“That’s...good, then.” Mei forces the words out of her mouth; they are inflectionless, mechanical. “I was worried I had given you the wrong idea.”

She doesn’t look at him when she says this. She _can’t,_ yet she senses him recoiling nonetheless, drawing into himself and defaulting back to the madness, back to the the terrifying good humor and volatile chaos, as if that’s all he is, all that defines him, and it _isn’t -_

_Let it be._

“Yeah, nah,” he says; his accent draws out until _nah_ becomes _naur_ and when he laughs it’s almost cruel. “I uh, ain’t exactly what ya call tha datin’ type, Miss. First thing I’m gonna do with these fancy daks is set ‘em on fire.”

“Let me give you your coat back, at least,” she says, but as she starts to shrug out of it Jamie waves his metal hand dismissively.

“Keep it,” he says. “Otherwise it’s goin’ up in flames too. Besides, looks good on ya. Better’n it ever did on me, yeah?”

He flashes her a smirk. For a moment Mei can only look at him, dumbfounded all over again by the way he looks, how _attractive_ he is, just as she had been when she first saw him standing outside the conference room, all dressed in black, wild white-blond hair and gold teeth gleaming in that devilish half-smile -

 _Devilish is right. The devil himself. That’s what you thought,_ the gatekeeper sneers, _And that’s what he is. All dangerous things are attractive, one way or the other. Shut him out._

“Get some sleep, Miss.” Jamie turns and heads down the hall toward his bunker, limping a little more than usual. “I’ll try not ta blow nothin’ up too loud.”

Mei says nothing. She does not so much enter her room as _flee_ to it, shutting the door behind herself - shutting him _out_ \- with reluctance.

_It’s done. Pull yourself together._

She tries. She stands with her back against her door and breathes and she _tries,_ but she cannot freeze out the bone-deep exhaustion forever and she soon gives up trying.

She turns off the light and curls up on her bed, in her dress, in her heels and makeup and Jamie’s jacket. The static-scribble roils and writhes in her chest like a tangle of serpents and suddenly she misses Snowball with a fierce, aching intensity that she hasn’t felt since the first night after it was destroyed.

She wants to cry. She _needs_ to cry...but she can’t. The tears won’t come.

And so she lies there in the dark, silent and alone, until she falls asleep.

* * *

 

# 4.

**_Two Weeks Later_ **

Angela glances up from her microscope as Mei enters the lab.

“Mei!” She slides down from her stool, hurrying around the lab table to meet her. “Thank you so much for coming. I would have brought them to you, but I don’t want to leave the lab…” She rifles through the pockets of her wrinkled lab coat and brings out a small box. “Ah! Here they are.”

Mei tucks the little box Angela hands her into the front pocket of her tank top. It contains blood samples from McCree and Satya that Angela wants to preserve, and Mei is the only one with access to the proper cryoprotectants necessary for cold-storing such samples without cellular degradation.

She doesn’t mind doing it, but she had not wanted to leave her own lab, either...though her reasons are far more selfish than Angela’s. She only wants to be alone; Angela wants to figure out what happened to McCree and Satya.

“How are they doing?” Mei asks, not wanting to appear rude. “I saw them both when I came in, but they were sleeping. Have you had any luck figuring out what happened?”

Angela leans against the lab table and crosses her arms with a heavy sigh. Mei is struck by how utterly exhausted she appears. She no longer resembles the golden angel Mei remembers from the disastrous U.N. event; she looks, in fact, as if she has not slept since that same night.

Her lank blonde hair is pulled back into a tangled bun. She has twisted her bangs to the side and secured them with more bobby pins than strictly necessary, as if she has been shoving a new one in every time her bangs slip instead of adjusting the ones already there. Her blue eyes are bloodshot and starey and the dark bags beneath them speak of far too many sleepless nights. She wears her stethoscope and lab coat over a threadbare _ETH Zurich_ t-shirt big enough to double as a dress, black leggings instead of pants, and the sort of hideous rubber shoes Mei associates with nursing.

“I know how I look.”

Mei jumps a little, startled. Her cheeks flush with heat. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry...I didn’t mean to stare.”

Angela gives her a wan smile. “It’s all right, Mei. I know I do not exactly inspire confidence, looking like this. I am just so _frustrated.”_

“No luck, then?”

“With McCree and Satya? Yes, though they are not happy about having to re-master bionic motor skills.”

Mei’s eyes grow wide. “Did you have to replace their bionics?”

Angela shakes her head and lets out a laugh that sounds as if it would rather be a scream.

“No. I had to upgrade them,” she replies, “It is a long story...and I am not even sure if my upgrades will _work…”_

She covers her face with her hands, so despondent that Mei is terrified she might start crying.

_This is not your problem._

Mei shoves the gatekeeper’s voice away, disgusted with herself for even allowing the thought to cross her mind. She moves toward Angela and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on,” she says, “Let’s go to your office. The blood samples will keep for awhile yet. I’ll make you some coffee and you can tell me about it, okay?”

Angela lets her hands fall into her lap, glancing over at Mei with a slight smile on her face. “Thank you. I would like that, I think. Perhaps if I talk it through out loud I will have a revelation.”

“It does help,” Mei says, remembering how she had talked things out to Snowball after she woke up in Antarctica. “Come on.”

Ten minutes later Mei sits down across from Angela’s desk, handing her a mug of coffee and trying not to stare at the ones already scattered around. More than a few of them are still half-full, as if Angela had become distracted and forgotten about them.

“I know,” she says again, taking the mug in her hands - Mei notices that her nails are short and ragged, gold polish chipping off in flakes. “Coffee isn’t a substitute for sleep and I would be furious if any of you did this to yourselves.”

“You do need to get some rest,” Mei says softly.

“I need _help,”_ Angela sighs. “But so long as our legal status remains up in the air, no one will agree to work here. And so I am on my own. When Ana returns I plan to make her my assistant...she knows much already. Thankfully they are due back soon.”

“That's a good idea.” Mei sips her coffee. “So what have you discovered so far? About what happened to McCree and Satya?”

“It is a nanobionic virus of some sort,” Angela mutters. “Beyond that I know nothing.”

The disgust in her voice is thick. Mei doesn’t blame her - she can’t recall ever hearing the term _nanobionic virus,_ and when she says as much Angela gives an uncharacteristic and undignified snort of laughter.

“That is because I just invented it.” She sets her mug down and rubs her temples. “And I invented it because I have no better explanation.”

Mei glances down at the box in her shirt pocket. “Did these tell you anything?” she asks.

“Only that something provoked the antibodies in their bloodstreams,” Angela sighs, “But I found almost no evidence of _what_ they were attacking.”

“Almost?”

“I _think_ the antigen was a virion,” Angela says. “Or at least their immune systems _reacted_ as if it was a virion. The few samples I obtained that actually contained evidence showed only what was _left_ of the antigen, which frankly was not enough for me to infer anything useful. Until I have more information, I am unable to do anything _concrete_ about the problem. Right now I am working off the hypothesis that someone managed to remotely introduce harmful antigens into their bloodstreams, and so I have made it more difficult to communicate with the bionics...but that means McCree and Satya will be in bionic physical therapy for a yet a little while, to re-master their motor skills.”

Mei frowns, trying to recall her biology lectures from uni. “Shouldn’t there be memory cells…? Since there was an immune response?”

“There should be, yes,” Angela replies, “But there are none.”

“None?”

“Oh, there are a few,” Angela allows, “But they are all memory cells for known diseases and vaccinations. Chicken pox, certain flu strains, common things like that. There are no memory cells that point to our mystery antigen. Either the antigen itself prevented their creation, or the antigen was structured in such a way that the memory cells would be wiped out alongside itself. Like a computer virus that cannot be eliminated unless you wipe the hard drive.”

Mei frowns. “Computer virus…?”

“It is the best metaphor I have. Integrated bionics like the ones McCree and Satya have work with the bloodstream,” Angela explains. “They are fused with the bone. The veins and arteries are connected to artificial ones, which are designed to produce vasculocytes to mimic the blood. The vasculocytes are then filtered into the bionic while the organic blood is circulated back into the rest of the body. The bionics need the vasculocytes to function, so the bigger the bionic, the more vasculocytes are produced. But in order to produce them they first need the input from the organic blood cells. That way if there is some sort of illness in the body, the vasculocytes can help fight it.”

“But…?” Mei prompts.

“But this...whatever happened to McCree and Satya…” Angela sighs again, cradling her forehead in both her hands and staring down into her coffee. “I think it _originated_ with the vasculocytes. I think the vasculocytes contaminated their blood. But when I got them into the medbay and analyzed their bionics, everything was functioning perfectly!”

“So you took organic blood samples.”

Angela nods. “For all the good it did me. As I said, there was not enough left of the antigen for me to do more than form a bare-bones hypothesis. I think it is a good hypothesis, but without any evidence of the antigen I cannot combat it properly. I just hope…”

Angela trails off, sitting back in her chair and worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

“Angela…?”

“Genji,” she says softly. “I am afraid of what this might do to -”

From beyond the lab comes the unmistakable sound of the medbay door irising open, followed by a confusion of panicked voices. Angela and Mei turn their heads at the same time; Mei picks out McCree’s Spanish, Satya’s Urdu, and -

“Egyptian,” Mei murmurs, “But that’s not Fareeha’s voice -”

“Ana,” Angela says, “But they’re not due back for…”

“DOC!” McCree bellows, his deep voice carrying across the lab, “WE GOT A PROBLEM!”

Angela rushes out. Mei hurries after her. They burst into the medbay moments later, stopping in their tracks as if the sight has knocked the wind out of them.

McCree is holding Ana up with his right arm; his left dangles at his side, its movements as jerky and awkward as if it had just been connected yesterday. Her head lolls onto his shoulder and when she jerks it back up her filthy hair flies back, revealing a bloody bandage plastered over her right eye.

Her _bionic_ eye...or where her bionic eye _used_ to be.

Mei’s heart slams against her ribs. Ana is pale - too pale. A plastic tube full of blood runs from the crook of her left arm. It is draped high over Roadhog’s left shoulder and runs down into the crook of _Genji’s_ left arm - Genji, who lies draped in Roadhog’s massive arms, body armor cracked and shattered, his mask gone, the green gleam of his bionic body flickering and faint. The eyes that usually reflect that gleam from inside stare up at the ceiling, dim and unblinking.

The remainder of his flesh and blood is covered in creeping red lines that reach toward his heart like hungry tentacles.

“Genji.”

Angela’s lips form the shape of his name, no more. She stands frozen. Her blue eyes are wide with horror. She is closer to panic than Mei has ever seen, and Mei cannot blame her; for a horrible moment she herself thinks that Genji is dead, _must_ be dead.

Then his eyes move.

They roll in their sockets with a horrible sluggishness - a _congealed_ sort of sluggishness - the eyes of a corpse, the _gaze_ of a corpse -

Mei recoils, but while Genji’s terrible slow-moving eyes horrify her, they propel Angela forward. She shakes off her shock and takes control of the situation in a brisk, matter-of-fact voice that conveys no hint as to the depths of her exhaustion.

She directs Roadhog to lower Genji onto one of the free beds and Satya to drag another one close; McCree helps Ana toward this one without being told, doing his one-armed best to help her into it, mumbling reassurances under his breath in a panicked mix of Spanish and English and horribly butchered Egyptian. Roadhog holds the tube of the makeshift IV up without being told as well, and while Angela goes to wash her hands Mei realizes that her first assumption - that Roadhog must have escaped unscathed - could not be more wrong.

His back is peppered in the marks of Ana’s biotic darts. There is a wide swath of skin low on his back, to one side of his spine, that is shiny pink and raw - a speed-healed wound. A serious one judging by the size, but not the only one. There are a few smaller ones scattered over his arms and shoulders. These are misshapen; they have healed around whatever projectile caused the wound in the first place.

The wounds disturb her - from a distance, Roadhog is nearly bulletproof - but what disturbs her _more_ are the bruises.

Roadhog’s thick skin resists damage much the same way Jamie’s resists burns. Things that would cause third-degree burns in normal men barely raise a blister on Jamie; blows that would shatter bone on normal men do not even bruise Roadhog, and damaging him with any sort of gun requires near point-blank range.

Roadhog doesn’t bruise, but _those are bruises_ \- they can be nothing else. One spreads out from the very center of his chest like a bluish-green growth of mold, and Mei does not even want to _think_ about what a blow like that would have done to a normal man.

“Mei!”

Mei glances up sharply, locking eyes with Angela; hers are a cold, flat blue.

“Go in the hall and page Lúcio,” she says. “Tell him to come here.”

“L-Lúcio…?”

“Yes, Lúcio!” Angela almost-but-not-quite snaps at her. “Tell him he has just entered nursing school, whether he likes it not. _Quickly!”_

Mei nods her head and hurries to do as she is told; as she goes Angela turns to Roadhog, taking the plastic tube and preparing to replace it with a proper IV.

“Sit tight, Mako,” she says, “I will cut those out for you soon, I promise.”

“Don’t bother,” Roadhog grunts. “Junkrat can do it.”

“No!” Angela sounds horrified. “Absolutely not, he has no formal -”

“Wasn’t asking,” Roadhog mutters, his voice a sinister whisper beneath the mask. “Got your hands full. He’s done it before.”

Roadhog lumbers out the door after Mei, heading toward the elevators while she tells Athena to locate Lúcio. She can hear his breath as he passes her and it is a high, screamy wheeze. When he taps the touchscreen to summon the elevator he seems to lurch forward, holding himself up with one arm as if he might fall to his knees...then the elevator doors open and he is steady again, disappearing inside them before Mei can hurry to check on him.

 _Junkrat can do it,_ he had said, and suddenly Mei can see it, the two of them in some blistering hot tin shack, Jamie with a Bowie knife and tweezers, rags and rotgut whiskey, blood slicking both his hands as he carves down into the meat of Roadhog’s arm or shoulder -

“Mei!” Lúcio’s voice snaps her out of her own grisly imagination; she turns to find him staring at her from Athena’s holo-display, looking more than a little confused. Hana sits behind him, wavering in and out of focus - she appears to have a video game controller in one hand.

“Hey, what does Dr. Ziegler need me for?” he asks, “Athena said it’s urgent, what’s going on?”

“The others are back,” Mei answers, speaking as quickly as she can. “And Angela needs your help -”

“Me?” Lúcio cocks an eyebrow.

“I am afraid you have been drafted into nursing school,” Mei says, relaying Angela’s message. “Please hurry, Lúcio, it’s too much to explain like this, but Genji - what happened to McCree and Satya, it is happening to him, only it is so much _worse -”_

Lúcio’s face shifts from panicked to grave in the blink of an eye.

“Right,” he says, nodding his head. “Tell her I’ll be there as quick as I can!”

The holo flickers out. Mei glances at the elevator doors once more, wondering if she should check on Roadhog...wondering, honestly, if Jamie is in any shape for what Roadhog needs him to do.

She has not so much as laid eyes on him for two weeks, after all.

No one has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/saiyanshewolf)?


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I'm sitting out dances on the wall_   
>  _Trying to forget everything that isn't you_   
>  _I'm not going home alone_   
>  _Cause I don't do too well on my own..._   
>  7 Minutes in Heaven - Fall Out Boy   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes** : Sorry for not updating for awhile! Between work, my boss being on maternity leave, costuming the fall show, and taking a Spanish class this semester, I've been painfully busy. If you want to be notified right away whenever I update, you can always hit the **subscribe** button up top!
> 
> **Warnings** : Blood, blood, gallons of the stuff...me essentially pulling sci-fi magic out of my ass...and, uh, I said I was taking a Spanish class, but that...doesn't actually mean I know Spanish. There is some in this chapter, but I am aware that I am probably VERY wrong and welcome any corrections :)

# 1.

Roadhog leans against Jamie’s worktable, so bone-deep exhausted that he scarcely feels the bite of Jamie’s old Bowie knife as it sinks into the flesh of his upper arm. He understands Dr. Ziegler’s horror, of course.  Jamie does not exactly inspire a sense of safety and confidence even on his best days...and if his shaking hands and the swaths of torn-out hair along his skull are any indication, this is not one of his best days.

Roadhog has known Jamie for a long time, however, and he knows when it’s safe to let Jamie near him with sharp objects and when it isn’t. Jamie has carved things out of him (and out of himself, truth be told) in worse frames of mind than this, but that being said...he hasn’t seen Jamie this bad in a long time.

He sits on the worktable with his existing leg tucked underneath him, hunched over Roadhog’s bicep with the knife in one hand and a mostly-clean shop rag soaked in rubbing alcohol in the other. Half an old M67 grenade shell sits to one side, filled with more rubbing alcohol; a pair of forceps sits in the makeshift dish, too clinical-looking to be anything but stolen.

“Step up from rotgut whiskey, reckon,” he mutters, swiping away blood as he slices open the tissue around one of the little slugs from Sombra’s machine pistol. “Doc too busy fussin’ over tha bot t’take a look at ya?”

“Ana too,” Roadhog mutters, which isn’t an answer, not really. It hurts his chest to talk - more than usual, anyway - but he talks nonetheless, because if he doesn’t mention it then Jamie never will. “How’d you fuck up, rat?”

Jamie’s thick, singed brows furrow down above his nose and his broad mouth curls in a sneer. He pries the little chunk of metal up with the knife tip instead of using the forceps and Roadhog actually flinches a little behind his mask.

“Fuck ya on about,” he says, drawing the slug out and dropping it into the frag dish. He prods his bloodied fingers up along Roadhog’s arm none too gently until he finds the next one. He brings up the knife.

Roadhog tilts his head and looks at him. He doesn’t need to say it.

Jamie has lost much of the weight he had put on since they were contracted, to the point that he is rapidly moving from ‘lean’ to ‘scrawny.’ The hair he had grown back is gone again, torn out along his temples and giving him that familiar receding-hairline look that ages him more than all the radiation and sunburn ever could; the hair he has left is singed at the ends. There is an ugly burn along his left forearm that he has apparently been treating with sporadic applications of black mystery grease, and whatever accident caused _that_ likely would have cost any normal person their arm. His voice is lower and his speech is coarser, as if he has been doing nothing but breathing smoke and talking to himself for weeks. He stinks of fire, of burnt hair and charred skin...and he hasn’t mentioned Mei at all.

Not once.

Jamie bristles under Roadhog’s quiet scrutiny. “Oi, I got a fuckin’ _knife_ , mate,” he snaps.

Roadhog grins behind his mask. “And I could crush your skull between my thumb and forefinger,” he rasps, “So what did you do?”

Jamie’s eyes gleam with heat and his lips curl back in a terrible scythelike grin. The light glints off his gold teeth and for a moment he looks perfectly, furiously deranged, as if he might begin cackling and carving Roadhog’s flesh like a pork roast...and then the fire in Jamie’s eyes grows dull, the mad grin melts into something a little more sane, and somehow it is the _sanity_  that makes it worse; it’s too self-aware, that little smile, too bitter and rueful and full of Jamie’s caustic, dangerous self-loathing.

“Don’t matter,” he mutters, going to work with his knife. “I was right, let’s leave it at that, yeah?”

“Rat.”

Jamie scowls, but there is no real feeling in it. It’s reflex, a performance, and Roadhog is far more alarmed by _that_ than the murderous, unhinged grin.

“Talon tried ta blow up tha convention hall,” Jamie mutters. His voice is tinged with a sort of bitter amusement, but mostly it is dull, almost flat; another bad sign. “Rigged up a bomb outta some fuel cell thingy from tha Ecopoint in Antarctica. Mei recognized it. Threw her for a loop. When we got back, I tell her I ain’t expectin’ nothin’ from her, meanin’ like I ain’t expectin’ her ta fuckin’ kiss me or sleep with me. Shit like that. ‘Cause she was upset. But she just looked relieved, said she was worried she’d given me tha wrong idea. So I was right after all, tha end. Ya can shut up about it.”

Roadhog tries to sigh and can’t gather enough breath. He coughs a little, choking on what little air he is able to draw in; Jamie pulls his knife back almost absently, only going back to work once Roadhog has cleared his throat and grown still again, as if this is a dance they two of them have done many times before.

“You _believed_ her?” Roadhog finally manages to grate out the words. His voice is little more than a wheeze, but the exasperation comes through. Jamie ought to know Mei better than that by this point. If she truly wasn’t interested, she never would have said yes in the first place; the woman is fundamentally _good_ in a way that Jamie apparently can’t quite fathom, despite all his idiotic rambling about _heroes._

Jamie flinches, so briefly that anyone other than Roadhog would have missed it entirely. His mouth twists into a sneer again, but this, like his scowl, is only a reflex.

“Seriously, mate. _Knife_ ,” he says, and Roadhog cannot recall Jamie ever threatening him with such a profound lack of enthusiasm.

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, choosing instead to fix Jamie with another of those pointed looks that are like a second language between them. After a moment or two Jamie’s facade falters; he drops his knife in the frag dish and sighs heavily, shoving his hair back from his forehead with bloodied fingers, leaving strange pinkish highlights.

“Why tha fuck would I not believe her?” he asks. " _Look_ at me, Roadie. It was a fuckin’ stupid idea ta begin with, thinkin’ she’d ever...whatever. It’s done, it ain’t fuckin’ important.” Jamie picks up his knife again and goes back to work, closing himself off with that unsettling apathy that makes Roadhog so goddamn nervous, because Jamie only gets apathetic right before he implodes.

“Why don’t ya tell me why ya let somebody get close enough ta put bullets in your thick hide?” Jamie asks, “And where tha fuck did all tha _bruises_ come from, mate? Ya don’t bruise.”

_He’s changing the subject_ , Roadhog thinks, but for now he lets it go.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he grunts, “Bruises came from Doomfist.”

“I seen ya take damage before, mate, thick hide or not, but this shit’s ridiculous,” Jamie mutters, prying another slug out of Roadhog’s arm. “That’s tha tenth fuckin’ slug, your chest is fuckin’ black an’ blue...it’s like ya were tha only damn person they was targetin’.”

“I _was_.”

Jamie starts. He glances up at Roadhog, sneering with a hint of true disgust. “What, didn’t ya have three bloody bots with ya?! What good are tha fuckin’ scrap heaps if they ain’t gonna cover your ass?!”

“They were covering my ass just fine,” Roadhog growls, “Until your _friend_ showed up.”

The effect is immediate. Jamie freezes, growing pale beneath the film of filth. He swallows hard, once, twice, his throat working as if he suddenly can’t gather enough spit to unstick his tongue...and then he goes back to his bloody work, keeping his eyes fixed on the task at hand.

“Where was Grandma Amari?” He asks, and his voice is too steady, too measured.

Roadhog snorts. He reaches up and taps the right lens of his mask; Jamie goes paler still as the implication becomes clear.

“An’...an’ Torb?” he asks, not so steady this time.

“Bots went down as soon as your _friend_  appeared,” Roadhog mutters. “Except Genji. At least to start with. She got him eventually. Torb was defending the bots. Best he could, anyway, with your _friend_ jamming up his turrets. Grandma Amari was pulling her eye out. When Genji went down I was alone.”

Jamie flinches again. His haggard face is so pale that he looks bloodless. Roadhog expects him to ignore the jibes - he usually does - but this time he folds. He drops his knife and the last slug into the frag dish and props his elbow on his thigh, cradling his forehead in his bloody left hand.

“Jus’ tell me what happened,” Jamie murmurs, and Roadhog’s sense of alarm doubles. Jamie sounds about a thousand years old.

For a moment Roadhog is silent. Then - speaking quietly because speaking hurts, speaking slowly because his breath is short - he does as Jamie asks.

 

# 2.

Talon shouldn’t have known they were coming.

At the very least, they should not have found out in time to send anything more than a few squads of soldiers - grunts, really, and grunts are what Morrison had told them to expect. He was convinced that there weren’t enough weapons left at Grand Mesa to _warrant_ anything except grunts, but that didn’t mean he wanted what was left falling into Talon’s hands.

And so he had sent a team to secure Watchpoint: Grand Mesa, and what remained of the arsenal within. The day before the U.N. Open Night, Roadhog, Bastion, Ana, Genji, and Zenyatta set off in Overwatch’s smaller stealth hovercraft, piloted by Torbjörn . Needless to say Roadhog hadn’t been too pleased to be assigned to a team with three bots...or two and three quarters, really, given that Genji at the very least still possessed _skin._

Some, anyway.

Yet Roadhog had kept quiet. Easier that way. It wasn’t as if anyone expected him to be Mr. Friendly in the first place.

They had arrived, disembarked, and begun to move forward, falling into previously assigned positions without conversation: Genji led the way as forward observer; Roadhog fell in behind him, ready to draw any fire to himself. Behind them came Bastion, their main base of fire, accompanied by Zenyatta to provide support and additional firepower. Behind the two bots were Torb and Ana as the maneuver element.

They had gotten in without incident. They had entrenched without incident. They had loaded the hovercraft with what weapons they were able to move and had secured the rest by bringing the old computer systems back online, connecting to the main Overwatch compound, and letting Athena update everything.

Within a week, Watchpoint: Grand Mesa was, for all intents and purposes, active again.

It was when they tried to _leave_ that all hell had broken loose, and though Roadhog keeps his story short and to the point, inside his head it plays out all over again:

They depart in the same positions they had entered, but a week of no hostile encounters has lulled them into a false sense of security...and then Doomfist appears, striking the ground with his gauntleted fist like a meteor from the sky. The shockwave scatters them; Reaper descends and scatters them further. A crack shot from above takes out one of Zenyatta’s eyes (at least Roadhog _thinks_ those are his eyes...with bots, it’s always hard to tell), indicating Widowmaker’s deadly unseen presence, and Ganymede’s shrill, panicked cries reveal that Bastion is jammed before ever firing a shot... _hacked,_ as it turns out.

Now, Talon has them separated. Torb has managed to set up a choke point somewhere nearby in an effort to defend two of the bots, Bastion and the monk. Roadhog isn’t sure what’s wrong with them now; he hasn’t been able to spare a thought for anything other than what’s right in front of him ever since Doomfist struck him in the chest. It is always hard to breathe, but taking a cybernetic gauntlet to the solar plexus makes it that much harder. Still, he has the feeling that whatever has put the two bots out of commission probably has something to do with Jamie’s _friend_...and it is Jamie’s _friend_ that he is on the lookout for now, not that the rest of Talon is making it easy. Roadhog can’t move his position much more than Torb can at the moment. Ana is laid up somewhere behind him, on top of a stack of shipping crates overgrown in vines, with a bullet in her ankle. Since she can’t relocate, Roadhog can’t move from her line of sight. Genji is their only mobile offense.

From the corner of his eye, Roadhog catches Widowmaker trying to move positions - likely to flank Ana. He flings out his hook and catches her around the waist, snatching her in close as he raises his scrap gun. She swears violently in French and as he fires he gets a glimpse of her her face, beautiful and savage and cold. A fine mist of blood fills the air as a hunk of scrap tears a ragged flap of skin from her cheek, and then the mist turns a venomous shade of violet and Roadhog is breathing in death.

_Venom mine,_ he thinks, and claws at his bruised chest in an effort to tear it away as his damaged airways constrict in protest. His next few breaths are little more than high pitched wheezes, and Widowmaker is gone, pulling herself to safety with her grappling hook and leaving him with three slugs in his shoulder and lungs full of poison.

He tears the mine away from his skin and flings it blindly, then gropes at his belt. He slams an oxygen canister against his mask and inhales. The world rebounds into painfully bright focus. At the same time one of Ana’s biotic darts bites into his back and the wounds in his shoulder heal over and around the projectiles. He has no time for another breath; there is a swirl of black to his left and he lashes out with his hook once more, dragging Reaper into range as _he_ tries to flank. A burst of scrap projectiles tear through his ephemeral body and Reaper dissipates, snarling in Spanish.

“ _Waiho ano koe_ ,” Roadhog rasps in reply, and then Doomfist’s gauntlet shot peppers against his thick skin and he strikes out again, managing to snatch him in close enough to get a good shot to the chest. Doomfist retreats as Reaper reappears; Roadhog hooks him in but this time he isn’t quick enough to get off a shot. Reaper disappears as a shot from Widowmaker cracks the left lens of Roadhog’s mask.

After that there is a lull. Roadhog grits his teeth and struggles to focus, grateful for the breather but not trusting it in the slightest...and he is right not to trust it, because that is when _she_ appears, materializing out of thin air just behind Roadhog.

Jamie’s _friend_.

Sombra.

_“¡Hola abuela! Esto de nada personal, lo prometo,”_ she says, and as Roadhog starts to turn her fingertips light up with a pinkish-purple shimmer. Before he can so much as lift his hook, however, Genji slides between her and Ana, flinging shuriken at her hands. Sombra dances away, laughing.

Roadhog _hates_ that laugh. He turns and flings his hook, taking Sombra by surprise and dragging her in. He lifts the scrap gun, ready to fire -

Ana screams. There are words, but Roadhog doesn’t understand them - then -

_“Adiós, Señor Cerdo. ¡Saluda a mi ratita por mí!”_

Sombra is gone, and everything begins to unravel.

Genji starts to sprint after Sombra and freezes in place. He stands for several seconds like a statue, then begins to move again...with heavy, jerky gestures, more like a possessed corpse than a ninja-bot. Ana falls from her perch and though Roadhog manages to catch her, she does not even seem to notice; she is still snarling under her breath in what Roadhog guesses must be Arabic, and then she is grabbing at her right eye - her _bionic_ eye - twisting, pulling, and Roadhog has seen a lot in his forty-odd years, has _done_ a lot, but when Ana’s fingers disappear beneath her bionic implant into the yawning dark socket behind it he has to lower her to the ground and look away. He sets his feet, keeping Genji and Ana at his back.

_It’s just me,_ he realizes, and he is bemused to find that he is afraid. His skin crawls as he sweeps his eyes from side to side, waiting for Talon to take up the offensive once again. He briefly entertains the idea of removing his mask - it limits his field of vision considerably - but he needs it for the oxygen canisters.

He hears a telltale rushing sound somewhere nearby, but before he can pinpoint the direction he hears Genji’s tight, strained voice bite out a warning: “Your right!”

Roadhog flings out his hook blindly, dragging Sombra into range once more. She lands a volley of point-blank shots into his arm with her machine pistol, but she takes a heavy hit of scrap directly in the chest. It flings her backward into another shipping crate and for a moment Roadhog can hear Genji breathe again, can hear him gasping like a drowning man...and then Sombra’s brown face contorts into something petulant and stubborn, and she disappears with another pinkish-purple digital shimmer.

As soon as she does, Genji’s breath locks in his chest once more. Roadhog risks a glance.

Genji is on his knees a little way in front of Ana. His body armor is cracked and damaged; it has fallen away from the left half of his chest almost entirely, revealing bare skin laced with faint red lines that are aimed at his heart. Yet he holds his arms out from his sides in a stiff approximation of the monk bot’s usual meditative pose, and that creepy green glow that emanates from his eyes burns brighter than ever...a hot, almost _radioactive_ green that Roadhog can’t bear to look at for too long.

Genji seems to tear the words out of his throat by sheer force of will: “Reaper! Left!”

Roadhog once again fires blindly to his left; he hears Reaper dissipate in retreat and it’s just as well, because Doomfist is barreling toward him like a rugby player, drawing his gauntleted fist back to strike; beyond him, Widowmaker is trying to move again, using Doomfist’s rush as cover.

Roadhog grins beneath his mask. He grabs the top-loader attachment from his belt, slams it onto his scrap gun, then reaches into a pouch at his side and feeds a massive handful of sharp, ragged scrap metal into it; he fires, sweeping the scrap gun back and forth like a machine gun.

Doomfist is knocked back, blood flying, as hunks of twisted metal sink deep into his chest and torso. A few find their way into the joints of his gauntlet and sparks begin to fly. Widowmaker flings out her grappling hook, pulling herself back to her previous perch to avoid being hit. Reaper tries to materialize and is torn to smoke before he can achieve even the vaguest human shape, and best of all Sombra reappears, reeling a little as she clutches an ugly, ragged red gash in her side with one hand. She glances up, staring somewhere beyond Roadhog’s shoulder, and for a moment he thinks she is going to go down...but she doesn’t go down.

Her brows furrow above her nose and she nods, then cloaks herself again, disappearing from view.

Roadhog snarls in fury, ready to fire blindly until he takes her down, but from behind him he hears Genji suck in a strangled breath, the sound of it so choked and almost _wet_ that he wonders if the bot is being garroted - but he _can’t_ be, his throat is _metal -_

Then Ana cries out in wordless wrath and Roadhog starts to turn around, starts to turn so he can see what’s hit her, what’s after her, and then he is enveloped in the stink of sulfur and gunpowder with Reaper’s hellish voice filling his ears.

“Die,” he whispers, and Roadhog never even hears the thunder of the shotguns.

His back erupts with heat on either side of his spine. Blood spills in a hot waterfall over his hips, soaking into the fabric of his pants, gluing it to his ass and thighs. The heat _expands_ as it travels through him and his vital organs shred in its wake.

Roadhog hits his knees. Blood hemorrhages from his mouth and fills his mask with a thick, nauseating metallic reek, but nothing comes up except more blood. He glances down at the vast expanse of his belly, waiting for his skin to burst open into twin calderas of gore, but nothing happens. It sits inside of him, that _heat,_ sits and radiates fire through his guts because his unnatural hide is thin enough to be pierced at point blank range but too thick to allow for exit wounds.

Ana screams a name Roadhog barely knows, screams _Gabriel!_ in such shocked despair that he finds himself terrified of someday hearing _Mako!_ in that same tone of voice, except that he has heard that before, he _has,_ and his vision grows dim and his mind grows confused and time grows strange; he seems to exist inside a single expanded moment and he finds himself wondering if the shadowy being that has drifted in front of him is really Reaper, or if it is just Reaper’s namesake come to drag him to hell, and just in case he reaches up toward his chest and oh, _god_ but moving is hard moving is _painful_ but his trembling thick fingers search out the little pink pig patch on his harness, the little patch that used to be velvet, used to be on a dress, a little dress, her _favorite_ dress, and the bloodstains are faded to nothing now and there’s only one little place that still feels soft, still feels like velvet, and he won’t see her where he’s going, of course he won’t, but still - still -

His back stings. It’s up high, between his shoulder blades, but Roadhog is reeling on his knees and Ana’s voice is a thousand miles away, slow and garbled and meaningless, and it’s good to die like this after the way he’s lived, good to die like he started, while trying to _protect -_

“ _Gen…”_ Ana’s voice, still coming from somewhere far and deep. “ _Gen...danger...don’t know...happen…”_

Roadhog is very warm, and very tired, and if only that _stinging_  would stop he could lie down, it could end, he could -

_“RYUJIN NO KEN WO KURAE!”_

Brilliant green light flashes in front of Roadhog’s eyes. At almost the exact same time his upper back becomes a minefield of sharp, stinging, _stabbing_ pain, pain so intense that he actually opens his eyes and sucks in a wet, agonizing breath, and through the blood-flecked lenses of his mask he sees it -

( _Him?)_

\- sees _Genji,_ or the green and grey blur of motion that he knows to be Genji, and Reaper disintegrates into a cloud of smoke as Genji’s blade tears through his form, leaving behind nothing but a faint whiff of sulfur; a smiling red mouth opens across Doomfist’s throat and a moment later a matching one appears across his chest and at last he flees, hatred burning in his eyes, but Genji is not done. He turns, blade flashing, and Sombra flickers into view.

Her face is contorted in pain. Genji’s sword has opened her above her hip, leaving her with two deep lacerations on either side of her body. She is battered and bleeding and unsteady on her feet, yet she is _grinning,_ grinning with blood flecking her lips - and then she is gone, not invisible but _gone,_ and still Genji is not done, not quite.

He flings two shuriken in his last burst of speed, then comes to a stop in front of Roadhog. He is panting and swaying, exposed and out in the open, a perfect target for Widowmaker...but his shuriken must have found their mark, because she does not take him out.

Several seconds pass. Roadhog blinks, astounded to find that he is not only still alive, but that he can see clearly again - can hear clearly, even _think_ clearly. The bleeding has stopped, both from his back and his mouth. There is still a tight, painful pocket of heat lodged in his gut, but at the moment the searing, stinging pains in his upper back are far worse.

Roadhog’s hand wanders away from the pink pig patch and over one massive shoulder. His fingers close on a biotic dart and he pulls it out, dropping it to the side, but the pain remains.

He reaches over his other shoulder with his other hand, grabs another dart, drops it; still no relief.

Alarmed, Roadhog reaches over both his shoulders. He begins plucking out biotic darts by the handful _._

_I’m a fucking pincushion,_ he thinks, and then Genji hits his knees and Roadhog forgets about the biotic darts.

Genji’s faceplate is cracked and broken and it falls away, jogged loose by the impact, revealing eerie green eyes locked into a thousand-yard stare. In front of Roadhog’s own eyes the jagged red lines around the left side of Genji’s chest thicken and surge toward his heart.

Genji falls on his face in the dirt and begins to seize.

From that point forward Roadhog moves like a man in a dream. Ana takes charge, her right eye covered tightly in makeshift bandages, her fingertips slicked in blood.

He goes to find Torbjörn  as Ana examines Genji, repeating her command: they must get out of there immediately, mission be damned. Torb agrees. Between the two of them, they manage to manually shift Bastion’s form well enough to turn it into a makeshift stretcher; when Roadhog settles Genji’s paralyzed body onto its back Bastion lets out a broken sort of whistle. Ganymede voices a pitiful echo, and Zenyatta bows his head.

Roadhog tries not to think about those whistling sounds, that bowed head.

He tries not to think, period.

He follows Ana’s instructions to set up the makeshift IV without a single question, without a word of protest, but again and again his gaze is drawn back to the monk-bot, hovering alongside Genji as Bastion bears him forward. There is an ugly crack across the metal of his chest and a few of the odd lights that serve as his eyes - that Roadhog _thinks_ serve as his eyes - are flickering and dim. The one Widowmaker took out remains utterly dark. Most unnerving of all is the movement of his orbs; they revolve around him slowly, _too_ slowly, some of them flickering, most of them dark. He gazes down at Genj, broken and hovering and silent.

Torb catches him staring. “Sombra’s got him on mute,” he grunts, pulling himself up into the hovercraft. “Dunno how she does it, but I’m damn tired of fixin’ it.”

Roadhog isn’t listening. He is staring at Zenyatta with panic coiling in his chest, because despite the lack of any real expression on Zenyatta’s metal face, Roadhog can tell that Zenyatta is worried, _concerned_ ...he can tell that Zenyatta is _upset,_ and that...that upsets _him._

Because bots aren’t supposed to _feel._

# 3.

Roadhog leaves out the part about Zenyatta.

“Your friend did a number on Genji,” he finishes mildly. “I wonder if it could help him.”

Jamie scoffs half-heartedly. “So what if it could?” he grumbles. “I ain’t handin’ over somethin’ like that just ta save a bloody _bot.”_

“Cyborg,” Roadhog says, and for a moment Jamie eyes him as if he might actually be a bot masquerading as Roadhog.

“What’s tha bloody difference?” Jamie asks, his thick brows furrowed slightly.

“Does it matter?” Roadhog asks.

“Exactly,” Jamie says.

“Whatever he is,” Roadhog says, “He saved my life.”

He falls silent. Jamie stares at him for a moment, thunderstruck, then abruptly begins to move again as if this isn’t something he particularly wants to consider. He picks up his Bowie knife and motions at Roadhog to stand up, then prods his long fingers along either side of Roadhog’s spine, moving up past his ribs and toward the hard slope of his stomach.

At length Jamie steps back and swears under his breath in an unsteady voice. “I ain’t gonna be able ta cut those slugs out, mate,” he says. “They went deep an’ they’re _still_ deep. I’d be carvin’ inta your guts. You’re gonna have ta head back ta Doc Ziegler.”

Roadhog grunts. “Expected as much.” He lumbers toward the door, then pauses and looks back at Jamie. “Take a fucking bath, rat. If you’re not clean when I come back down I’ll drown you.”

Jamie scowls. “Get out ‘fore I change me mind ‘bout carvin’ ya up.”

“I mean it,” Roadhog says. “Don’t try me, rat.”

He slams the door behind himself; as soon as it closes he hears the high-pitched metal-on-metal _skree!_ of Jamie’s knife ricocheting off the bunker door.

# 4.

As it turns out, Roadhog will not be heading back down to Jamie’s bunker any time soon.

Instead he finds himself laid out in a makeshift surgical theatre, being prepped by a terrified but determined Lúcio while Dr. Ziegler scrubs herself up. The anesthesia is slow to take hold; Roadhog’s breaths are labored on a good day, and he has not had one of those in about a week.

When it finally begins to take effect, Roadhog begins to speak - far more than Lúcio has ever heard him speak before, and far more urgently as well, so urgently that he reaches over and grabs Lúcio’s arm in one massive hand.

“As soon as this is over,” he breathes, “Check on the rat.”

“We’ve...we’ve tried,” Lúcio  stutters, struggling not to convey how nervous Mr. Rutledge makes him, gripping his arm like that. “He says what he’s working on...he says it’s too dangerous, he won’t -”

“He’s lying,” Roadhog says flatly. “Break in if you have to. Get him…”

He trails off into a high, struggling wheeze of a breath. When he exhales he coughs for so long that Lúcio nearly panics, but Roadhog does not release his arm; in fact, as soon as the spell passes, he pulls Lúcio in closer.

“Get him out of bed,” Roadhog rasps. He is struggling to keep his eyes open. “Or off his couch, wherever he lays up. Get him in the shower. And get _food_ into him, hear me?”

Lúcio nods. “We tried before, but we’ll...we’ll make sure this time, Mr. Rutledge.”

“Good.” Roadhog sighs. “He’s...he’s going to be be a dick. Going to say shit he doesn’t...shit he doesn’t really mean, and you’re...probably you’re going to want to punch him in the face. Do it, if you’ve got to, but don’t…”

Roadhog’s eyes flutter closed, but his grip is still tight as a vise around Lúcio’s forearm.

“Don’t leave him alone,” he mutters, “Swear you won’t leave him alone, you hear me? He can’t...he can’t be alone, there’s no...no fucking telling what he’ll...”

“I hear you, Mr. Rutledge,” Lúcio  says softly. “Hana and Lena and I will take turns. We’ll take care of him, I promise. Whether he likes it or not.”

Roadhog nods. A moment later his grip eases, then falls away entirely, arm dangling. Lúcio lifts it back onto the operating table, frowning to himself as he thinks of how bad off Jamie must be for Mr. Rutledge - for _Roadhog,_ the one-man apocalypse - to demand such a promise.

He is still frowning when Dr. Ziegler appears in the doorway, masked and gloved. “Lucio?” she asks, “Are you all right? Can you handle this?”

Lúcio swallows the tremor in his throat. “I’m ready,” he answers, “Just tell me what to do.”

# 5.

_One Week Later_

They haven’t spoken in three weeks.

Morrison has called a meeting, and when they run into one another in the hall outside the conference room Mei is...polite. _Excessively_ polite. Her hands are folded neatly in front of herself as she speaks, as if she is blocking him off...at least Jamie _thinks_ she is blocking him off.

He has no way of knowing that Mei holds her hands clasped together to keep them to herself, to keep from reaching toward him and sliding them around his waist, his back, to keep from pulling him close and burying her face against his broad bare chest and _clinging_ to him, to the _heat_ of him, until the frigid, icy bitch in the back of her head melts into oblivion.

_Don’t be foolish,_ she thinks, in that rational and cold part of her mind that she has come to refer to as the gatekeeper. _Sit down and pay attention._

Mei sits. She tries not to be hurt when Jamie sits on the other side of the room, slouched down in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest like an insolent schoolboy. Lúcio leans in close and mumbles something to him; Jamie smirks slightly, almost despite himself, and sits up a little straighter. While the others file in Mei watches them talk, mumbling and snickering, and the image of devilish schoolboys won’t leave her head.

_You’re too old for him anyway._

Mei looks away, ignoring this unhelpful little thought as best she can. She has been on this planet for 43 years...but she has _lived_ through only 33 of them, and it makes her head and her heart ache to think about that, to try and decide how much older she is than Jamie. Six years? Sixteen?

_It doesn’t matter. Pay attention._

Mei takes a deep breath, sits up, fixes her eyes on Morrison, and waits for the meeting to begin.

# 6.

“After the incident with the solar fuel bomb, Winston and Athena managed to re-establish a holo feed on Antarctica for a short period of time,” Morrison says, setting his datapad on the conference table. “The feed was soon discovered and severed afterward, but it remained up long enough for us to gain some valuable information. Watch.”

A fuzzy, glitchy hologram appears above the datapad, projecting two figures; Morrison pauses it before it begins to move.

“Reaper,” he says quietly, “And Sombra.”

Jamie’s skin crawls over in gooseflesh at Sombra’s name. He glances up, watching the hologram with his teeth digging into the inside of his cheek.

Reaper and Sombra stand at the forefront with their backs to the camera as if they are watching something play out in front of them, but the holo quality is too low to make out what that might be. Morrison taps the datapad and the holo begins to play.

> **Reaper** : No crees que esto vaya a funcionar en serio, ¿verdad?
> 
> **Sombra** : Creeme. Puedo hackear cualquier cosa, incluso si ha estado congelada por doce años.
> 
> **Reaper** : No dudo de tus habilidades, dudo de la información que buscas.
> 
> **Sombra** : Si no funciona, por lo menos ayudará. ¿Tuviste que matarla? Su ausencia hace las cosas mucho más difíciles.
> 
> **Reaper** : Como si ella nos hubiera ayudado en absoluto.
> 
> **Sombra** : Podría haberla hecho ayudarnos.
> 
> **Reaper** : Eres una tonta si realmente crees eso. Eres un tonta de todos modos - este plan no hará más que enviar a Overwatch tras nosotros.
> 
> **Sombra:** ¿Overwatch? No te preocupes por ellos.
> 
> _(Waves her fingers at the camera.)_
> 
> **Sombra** : Los tengo a todos... en... el... bolsillo.
> 
> _(Turns; reaches out and taps camera lens.)_
> 
> **Sombra:** ¿Verdad que sí, savandija? ¡Boop!

Many voices begin speaking at once as some of the others begin to clamor for translations, to theorize and guess and discuss...but Jamie sits frozen, staring forward, oblivious to anything other than the tempest of panic brewing in his chest and the hell inside his head.

She was looking at him.

She was looking _right at him._

She had to have been, she _had_ to have been because why else should it feel like everyone in the room _knows,_ like they’re staring at him, and he already knows that she was talking to him, specifically to _him,_ she had called him _savandija_ instead of _rata_ and laughed, laughed at him and his plans and his dreams of destruction, of tearing it all down -

_\- who fuckin’ cares might as well stick t'tha plan yeah fine stick t'tha plan ‘cause Mei don’t want ya none of ‘em really want ya usin’ ya an’ you’re lettin’ ‘em lettin’ ‘em use ya fuckin’ pathetic bloody superheroes still wear suits just a different kind and ya know that ya know it -_

Jamie’s metal fingers close around his left bicep, sinking in deep enough to bruise.

_\- right yeah why tha fuck not let ‘em tear each other apart let ‘em tear the world apart who fuckin’ cares I don’t care why should I care I’ll keep it ta myself it’s mine she’s close but she don’t get it that’s bloody obvious look at McCree an’ Satya they're fine so she ain’t got shit an’ I don’t give a shit one way or tha other -_

His mouth curls into a sneer. Yeah, fine, why the fuck not, it’s even kind of poetic...sure, in a way, using something that could do so much _good_ to tempt so much destruction...

_\- ‘cause that’s what people do, ain’t it, at tha end a’tha day that’s what they do they fuckin’ destroy each other -_

Jamie nearly jumps out of his skin when Lúcio’s brown hand slips into his field of vision, closing around his metal wrist.

“Jamie, man, ease up a little,” he says gently. “You could break your own arm with that thing.”

Jamie, pulled out of his own black and bitter thoughts, blinks up at Lúcio in surprise. A knot forms in the back of his throat and he swallows past it with audible click, then looks away and nods his head. He eases his grip and tries to relax, but...

_At tha end a’tha day that’s what they do, they fuckin’ destroy each other..._

“It won’t last much longer, Jamie,” Lena says from his other side.

_That’s what they do..._

“Yeah, soon as Jack makes his next announcement we can go play games,” Hana mutters, leaning across Lúcio. She pushes her bubblegum between her teeth and grins at him briefly, then straightens up again as Morrison’s eyes sweep over them.

_...they fuckin’ destroy each other._

Jamie leans forward abruptly, propping his elbow on his knee and cradling his forehead in his left hand, unwilling to let them see his face as he tries to control the murky tide of memories from the past week. Morrison is speaking, listing names, and Lúcio elbows him but Jamie says nothing, only nods his head in an absent sort of way as his mind spins, as if it is hellbent on filling him with as much bitter guilt as possible.

He had lost it. He knows that much. Not eating, not sleeping, refusing to see anyone, to speak to anyone...living alone down in his bunker with nothing but his toys and his mind...and he had _known_ it was bad for him, had _known_ what would happen and done nothing to stop it and by the time Roadie told his story Jamie was hanging onto his mind by threads.

_Not even threads,_ he thinks, _Fuckin’ skin a’my teeth, an’ they...they..._

He remembers:

Lúcio, Lena, and Hana standing in the doorway of his bunker after telling him about Roadhog, standing there as he rails at them, curses them and threatens them; the bright panic in his chest as he realizes that the concern and hurt on their faces has nothing to do with his lashing out and everything to do with the fact that he is in pain, that he is suffering and ill-equipped to handle it, and they _know_ , they know it and the vulnerability of it sparks every vicious survival instinct ingrained in his psyche -

Lúcio, wrestling him into the bathroom in a struggle that Jamie would have won easily not even three weeks prior, holding his arms and shoving him inside, slamming the door, locking him in, sitting outside on the floor with his back to the door and refusing to let Jamie out until he showers and brushes his teeth -

Coming out nearly an hour later with wet hair and raw knuckles and a bruised shoulder, his missing right arm aching, _throbbing_ from removing his prosthetic, stupidly insisting that it still exists despite over a decade of evidence to the contrary; coming out with a white towel wrapped around his bony hips and a scowl on his gaunt face, coming out to Lena’s grin before she rushes past him, grabbing up his filthy clothes and tossing them into a basket with everything else off his bedroom floor, his bedsheets, the ragged blankets from the bunker, even his shop rags -

Sitting on his stripped mattress in his towel, Hana standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest, more intimidating than Roadie or Reinhardt or Zarya or Winston as she stares him down throughout all his cursing and sneering, stares him down until he can no longer bear it, can no longer stand the intensity of her gaze, until he swears violently and reaches for the tray of food and begins to eat with no grace whatsoever -

Lying face down on his newly made bed, on clean sheets, wearing clean boxers and shorts, watching from between his folded arms as Lena flits around his bedroom, straightening up and organizing and cleaning; fear and fury in his chest and he can’t remember what he says but he knows it’s cruel, knows it’s uncalled for, and Lena only asks if he’d rather she leave his toolbox alone, she knows people can be a bit particular about such -

Fighting his way out of a nightmare at three AM, reaching for a knife that’s no longer under his pillow as Hana shakes him, shakes him until he knows her and when his mind clears he dreads the inevitable questions so intensely that he wants to be sick but all she does is crawl in next to him, sitting cross-legged on top of the covers and turning on the hologram function of her GameBoy so he can watch her play until he falls asleep again -

Lúcio waking him to eat, to shower, Lúcio grabbing his wrists almost absently and pulling his snatching hands out of his hair, Lúcio asking him about explosives and sound waves until they wind up in his bunker working on the soundblast bomb again;  Hana dragging him to her room to watch her play video games, playing the RPGs she doesn’t usually go for, playing characters that specialize in explosives and asking him how their weapons would work, if they’d work, if he could build them; Lena sitting with him in the bunker as he begrudgingly upgrades her bombs, asking him question after question to the point he can’t spare a thought to tell her to shut up -

Jamie covers his eyes with his hand. He hasn’t been alone once this week. At the time it had infuriated him - _frightened_ him, and he knows _why_ , or at least he knows why _now_ , but -

Lúcio lets out a low, soft whistle. “Damn, Mei.”

_Mei?_

Jamie glances up. He realizes that people are shouting - have _been_ shouting, and to his shock it is _Mei_ doing most of it.

At _Morrison._

“I am _going,_ damn it! Whether you like it or not!”

Morrison is masked, his arms crossed over his chest, but his voice is not the voice of the Soldier, not yet. “Mei, please. You’re too close to this. You _know_ you’re too close to this.”

Mei pushes her glasses up, glaring. “Damn right I am close to this! And I am telling you that _I am going!”_

“Mei, _please_ ,” Morrison says again, almost pleading. “I’m not saying that you can’t be involved. I am only saying that you don’t need to be on the strike team! We only need you to cooperate with them, give them the info they -”

Mei laughs. It is a high, mirthless sound that chills Jamie to the bone.

“I am not going to cooperate with _anyone_ ,” she sneers. “Either I’m on the strike team or Talon takes everything. Take your pick, _Commander.”_

Morrison squares his shoulders. “We can get in without you, Mei,” he says, sounding more and more like the Soldier. “It will be more difficult, but if you insist on being insub -”

“Shut up, Jack,” Mei snaps. “You know _nothing.”_

A low gasp runs throughout the room. Jamie finds himself grinning.

“Mei -”

“I said _shut up_.” Her voice is soft, bitter and terrifying. “You have no idea what I went through, what I had to do, and you won’t be able to access a damn thing without me.”

She grins at him, then laughs again. Morrison is silent, unreadable, and Mei leans over the corner of the conference room table into his space, fingertips splayed over the table’s surface. Even from a distance Jamie can tell that she is shaking.

“Did you know,” she begins, speaking barely above a whisper, “That I did not bring back even _half_ of what we learned? I took what was most important, but that doesn’t mean that I took everything. All it means is I had limited storage capabilities. I took what was most important because that was all I _could_ take, do you understand? I brought back so much, _so much,_ but I left behind so much more, and I promise you that if Talon really is branching into eco-terrorism, we do not want them getting their hands on _any_ of that data.”

“That still doesn’t -”

“The AI responded to specific passcodes,” Mei continues, as if Morrison had never spoken. “We used them to access one another’s research sectors. The passcodes were calibrated to our voices, so if I needed to check something that was Opara’s area instead of mine, I needed her to say her passcode before I could access her sector.”

Mei begins to smile: a cold, unhappy twist of her lips.

“After I woke up I had to piece together audio recordings just to get into their sectors. It took weeks. Maybe months. Time was strange. But once I had access, I recalibrated all their sectors to _my_ voice.” Her smile broadens into a terrible grin. “I was the last man standing, Jack.”

Morrison says nothing.

“So maybe you can get the system up again, but you can do _nothing_ without me, without my voice, without what I know,” Mei says softly. “And unless I am on that strike team, I will give you _nothing_.”

And with that, Mei stands up, squares her shoulders, and walks out of the conference room without so much as a backward glance. The room is filled with a thick, stunned silence; at length Morrison mutters a gruff _Dismissed_ and everyone begins to file out in a daze, Jamie included.

Just before he reaches the door, Morrison says, “Fawkes. Come here.”

Jamie glances at Lúcio, who shrugs. “Want us to wait?”

“Nah,” Jamie mutters. “I’ll meet ya in Hana’s room after awhile, go on.”

Lúcio nods and walks out, leaving Jamie alone with Morrison. He crosses to the front of the conference room with one eyebrow arched; Morrison pulls his mask away from his scarred, haggard face.

“What a fucking mess,” he sighs, rubbing his temples with a thumb and forefinger. “Fawkes, I need you to talk some sense into her.”

Jamie snorts. “I dunno whether ya noticed or not, but Mei an’ me ain’t -”

“I don’t give a shit what you _ain’t_ ,” Morrison snaps. “I know what you _are_ , and I know you’re the only damn person in the compound that has a prayer of changing her mind.”

“Tha hell makes ya say that?”

“Whatever the hell happened between you two after the U.N. disaster, the fact remains that Mei has spent more time with _you_ than anyone else in the damn compound,” Morrison says. “Since she came back from Antarctica she’s been closed off, quiet - then _you_ showed up. She might be trying to close off again, probably is, but _you’re_ the one that thawed her out, so _you’re_ the one that has the best chance of reaching her.”

Jamie blinks, taken aback, and Morrison sighs. He picks up his mask and stares at it, weighs it in his hand before looking back up at Jamie.

“She doesn’t need to go back, Fawkes,” he says, “It’s only going to hurt her.”

For a moment Jamie only looks at him, but it doesn’t take long to see that this isn’t the Soldier talking; it is only Morrison, and his concern is genuine.

“I ain’t sure that’s up ta _you,_ mate,” Jamie mutters, “But whatever. I’ll give it a burl, sure.”

# 7.

He gives it a burl.

It doesn’t work.

He catches up to her on their floor, just before she turns to head toward her lab, and as soon as he says her name he knows that it’s useless. She rounds on him like a hurricane as soon as he speaks, cursing under her breath in Chinese as she stares him down.

“He sent you,” she spits, cutting her eyes at him. “He sent you to try and change my mind!”

Jamie says nothing. He only nods his head, already wishing he’d told Morrison to go fuck himself; Mei is like an entirely different person...not even a person, a force of nature.

“Why does he think I’ll change my mind for _you?”_ she asks, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she stalks toward him. “Why does he think I’ll change my mind for _anyone?!”_

“I dunno, Miss,” Jamie mumbles, trying to back away. “I’ll go tell him -”

“This is not a _debate!”_ She is either ignoring him or doesn’t hear him speak, and before Jamie can say another word she has advanced upon him close enough that his back is pressed to the wall. She is small and fierce and frankly terrifying, standing on her tiptoes with white-knuckled fists at her sides and hectic spots of color in her cheeks, dark eyes like brimstone.

“That is my _life_ that Talon is coming for, that they’re going to try to _weaponize,_ all the work I did, that my _team_ did, work that they _died for!”_ She sweeps tears from beneath her fogged-up glasses as if her very eyes have somehow betrayed her, then pushes them up from her face to rest on her head, so roughly that Jamie is surprised they don’t break.

“They died trying to _help people,_ ” she continues, tears streaming despite her efforts to wipe them away. “Trying to help the _world,_ trying to _heal_ it! And they _died!_ We froze and we waited while Overwatch did _nothing,_ while Overwatch _imploded_ and _collapsed,_ they _died there_ and I lost _ten years of my life there_ and now he is trying to tell me that I can’t _defend_ that? That I can’t protect the work that I was already willing to die for? That I _should_ have died for?”

An icy spike drives through Jamie’s heart at these last words, but Mei goes on, oblivious to his stricken expression, the pained horror in his eyes. She swipes at her face again, slinging the tears off her cheeks, then tosses her bangs out of her eyes and glares up at him with the blinding intensity of sunlight on snow.

“So _tell me,”_ she hisses, “Tell me what his reasons are! Tell me what he told you that is supposed to convince me! What did he say? That I’m too close to this? _I am the only one close enough!”_

Jamie can’t speak. His heart seems to have crawled into his throat and his tongue is thick and stupid in his mouth.

“You probably agree with him, don’t you?” she snarls. “You probably agree with him and everyone else, that I can’t handle it, that I’m crazy, that I don’t need to go!”

Jamie forces himself to speak, to try and stem the tide of her anger. “Miss -”

“Well I’m _going,_ ” she continues, as if he had not spoken. “Morrison can’t stop me -”

“Miss, _please -”_

“And if he thinks _you_ can then he -”

“Oi, it ain’t up ta me!”

The thunder of his own voice surprises him; Jamie finds himself standing up straight, towering over Mei and gazing down at her shocked, upturned face. He feels the furrow in his brow, the snarl on his lips, and backs down immediately.

“It ain’t up ta me what ya do,” he murmurs, ashamed of himself. He rubs the back of his neck with his metal hand, shifting his gaze away. “An’ I told Morrison it ain’t up ta him either.”

“You...wait, you told...then why...why were you…?” Mei’s eyes are wide and round, as if Jamie’s outburst had startled all the fury from them.

“I told him it ain’t up ta him but he asked me ta talk t’ya anyway,” Jamie mutters. “He’s actually worried about ya, s’tha only reason I said I’d do it an’ I guess I have.”

“Oh...oh.” Mei blinks, then looks away as well. She shifts on her feet a little, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well. Um. Thank you, then. For...for telling him that.”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t mean I think it’s a good idea, Miss, but I ain’t in your head an’ I can’t tell ya what ta do.”

“No. You can’t. But at least you _know_ you can’t.” Mei sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m...Jamie, I’m sorry, I...I should just go, before I bite someone else’s head off.”

“Don’t be,” Jamie answers, his voice gruff. “Don’t think nobody faults ya for bein’ touchy ‘bout it, I shoulda...I shouldn’ta yelled at ya ‘bout it. Sorry, Miss.”

“Touchy.” Mei laughs softly, then heaves a sigh. She pulls her glasses back down, then glances up at Jamie once more. “That’s one way to put it. It’s okay, Jamie. I...honestly I needed somebody to shut me up. I wasn’t being fair.”

Jamie shrugs again. He is still trying desperately to look anywhere but her face, and his heartbeat is so heavy in his chest that he is certain she can see it imprinting against his skin like a lovesick cartoon character.

“Listen, Jamie,” Mei says, and Jamie suddenly can’t breathe, needs to get away before he makes a fool of himself -

“Yeah, nah, don’t worry, Miss,” he says quickly, turning to head back toward the lift. “It’ll be quiet for awhile yet, I’m headin’ back up ta...ta help Torb fix up some’a his turrets -”

Her hand closes around his left wrist and Jamie’s heart skips approximately seventy-two beats.

“No, that’s not…I’m not worried about you making a racket,” she replies, and when he turns to look at her again, helpless, there is a tiny smile playing upon her lips. “I was just...I thought I should tell you, you’ll, um...you’ll want to get some new clothes. Warm ones. Hana helped you with your suit, she should be able to help you with that too.”

For a moment Jamie is so genuinely puzzled that he forgets to be nervous. “What are ya talkin’ about, why would I need new clothes?”

Mei sighs, blowing her bangs out of her eyes as her tiny smile begins to widen. “Jamie, weren’t you listening…?”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying not to dwell on how cute she is when she is exasperated. “I, uh...I kinda zoned out ‘til I heard ya shoutin’, ta be honest.”

“You’re on the strike team,” she says. “Jamie, you’re going to _Antarctica._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy what I do, consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/saiyanshewolf)?
> 
> Thanks to cyclonestorm for providing a corrected translation!


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